


and we run

by gracieminabox



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brief Use of Firearms, M/M, Medical Procedures, Minor James T. Kirk/Leonard "Bones" McCoy, Nuclear Warfare, Serious Injuries, Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-18 00:45:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13670745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracieminabox/pseuds/gracieminabox
Summary: For two men at the end of the world, love and survival are interdependent concepts.(A Chris/Phil nuclear apocalypse AU, written for thevalesofanduin's Star Trek Apocalypse AU Challenge on Tumblr.)





	and we run

_April 30_  
_Sausalito, California  
_ _One month before_

 

_“The president was in Macon, Georgia today campaigning on behalf of controversial Senate candidate Craig Mayhew. In his remarks before a crowd of supporters, he upped the ante on his fiery critiques of the mainstream media’s coverage of his administration and roundly dismissed concerns introduced at a UN Security Council meeting last week that furthering the war of words with other nuclear powers may bring the United States to the brink of war. Heather Jennings is traveling with the president; Heather?”_

Chris only had the TV on as background noise as he sat up in bed, grading a stack of SOC 101 papers. All the words on these pages seemed to be blending together; it wasn’t quite clear to Chris whether that was because his eyes were tired or because the papers were just that bad. He was going to kill Laura for making him take on her intro class this term.

“Put on your damn glasses, would you?” a fondly exasperated voice said from the door of the room. Phil stood there in scrubs, leaning against the doorjamb, obviously exhausted. Chris smiled at the sight.

“I didn’t even hear you come in.”

“Sneaked in through the carport.” Phil walked around to his side of the bed and flopped face down, bouncing Chris a little in the process. “How’s grading?” he asked, voice muffled by his pillow.

Chris conceded defeat and put on his reading glasses. “Slow,” he answered. “I was just reflecting on how big a steak Laura owes me for this.”

“Big,” Phil agreed, blindly grabbing for Chris’ left hand, grading pen and all, and planting a lazy kiss on it. “Perfectly medium rare” - _kiss_ \- “with baby asparagus” - _kiss_ \- “and a baked potato with extra butter” - _kiss._ Phil rolled over with some protest in his muscles and rested his head on Chris’ shoulder, where Chris dropped a kiss of his own.

“How was work?”

Phil kicked off his sneakers, dual _thuds_ reverberating as they landed on the floor. “Four ER consults, three healthy babies, two ovarian cysts, and a partridge in a pear tree,” he said over a yawn. “Sorry I’m so late; one of those babies took her sweet time and I didn’t want to hand her mom off to some intern.”

“No wonder you’re tired,” Chris said, before his attention was momentarily grabbed by the TV screen, where footage of the president was being broadcast; he was standing at a podium, openly and monosyllabically daring another nuclear state to _bring it on._ Chris stabbed at the mute button with vigor. “Oh, get a thesaurus, you fucking blowhard,” he muttered.

“He’s going to kill us all,” Phil singsonged without smiling. Chris waited for the footage to cut back to the news desk, then unmuted the TV.

_“While it is never completely possible to be ready for a nuclear attack, how prepared are you and your family? What if your spouse is at work, or your children at school? What about elderly or infirm relatives or neighbors? What about safeguarding your home? Tonight, we take a closer look at how to protect yourselves in another part of our ongoing series, ‘If The Worst Occurs.’”_

“There’s some nice, wholesome fare for right before bedtime,” Chris muttered, moving the papers off his lap and resigning himself to the fact that he just couldn’t take another freshman sociology paper tonight. He killed his bedside lamp, popped a couple ibuprofen for the eye strain with his regular medication, then settled his cheek back on Phil’s head.

Phil kept his eyes on the screen, where they were layering sandbags on top of a dining room table shoved flush against a brick wall. “Yeah, but it’s important,” he said. “They’re going to start doing drills at the hospital next week.”

Chris sighed. “We’re probably not far behind at the university then.”

Phil squeezed Chris’ hand, thumb running gently over his ring finger. “You know, it might not be a bad idea for us to throw a little something together in the basement...just in case.”

Chris turned to his partner, a little crease between his eyebrows. “Really?” There was a thin glaze of incredulity on his voice.

“Yeah, really,” Phil replied. “We kid about _he’s going to kill us all,_ but those are real weapons they’ve got pointed at us, Chris. We’re ten miles from San Francisco; if they nuke us, we’re toast.” He shrugged. “What’s it gonna hurt? All we’d really be out is the cost of a bunch of water and canned food, and it’s not like we couldn’t eat it later anyway, once our _intrepid leader_ gets himself impeached.” Phil nodded to the TV, where more footage of the president was on.

Phil had a point, Chris realized. They did have a partially finished basement, and plenty of money in the bank to invest in basic things to transform it into a little bunker. And even though The Bomb would probably never come, it would certainly offer the best odds of survival if it did.

“Yeah,” Chris murmured. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s...let’s throw something together. Why not?”

Phil squeezed his hand again, tilting his head up to kiss Chris’ cheek. “Thank you for letting me build a nuclear bunker in the basement, darling,” he crooned sarcastically.

Chris tried to cringe, but it turned into a smile without his permission. “You’re welcome, _schnookums.”_

Phil snorted inelegantly. They fell into a comfortable silence as the news ended and a late night show began. Phil kept stroking Chris’ ring finger with his thumb.

“I feel what you’re doing, you know,” Chris broke in gently, turning to face him.

Phil looked up, puzzled. “What?”

Chris squeezed his hand, hoping Phil would get the hint.

The set of Phil’s mouth changed and he blinked a couple times. Yeah, he got the hint. “Sorry,” he mumbled, averting his eyes.

Chris nuzzled his head a little to soften the sting. “It’s okay.”

Phil was quiet for a moment, then turned his eyes back to the TV, as if trying to pretend nothing had happened. Then, giving up the facade, he shrugged, in a pathetic attempt at nonchalance. “I can’t help it sometimes,” he mumbled. “I just want to marry you.”

Now it was Chris’ turn. “I’m sorry,” he murmured into Phil’s hair.

“It’s okay,” Phil rushed to say.

“You know my track record.”

“I know.”

“You know how I feel about it.”

“I know.”

“You know if I thought I could - ”

 _“Chris,”_ Phil interrupted on a breath of a laugh. “I know, honey. We’ve talked about this I don’t know how many times in fifteen years. I _know.”_ Phil shrugged slightly, putting on a tiny, sheepish smile. “Doesn’t stop me from...I dunno, dreaming. Or wishing.”

Chris felt something in him crack. “Oh, well, if _that_ doesn’t just break my heart,” he murmured, tugging Phil into his arms.

Phil shook his head against Chris’ chest and sighed. “Nah, don’t let it,” he insisted, much too casually for the topic. “I love things just the way they are. Promise.”

Chris clicked the TV off with one hand and slumped down in bed with Phil still in his arms, and they rearranged their limbs the way only two men who know each other intimately can. “I don’t deserve you, you know,” Chris murmured as they drifted off.

Phil smiled into the darkness of their room and kissed Chris’ hand again. “Love you too.”

~

 _May 23_  
_Berkeley, California  
_ _One week before_

 

Chris was giving the final exam for his upper-division class one last once-over when a knock sounded at the door. He looked up and met the eyes of his son, peering into the room with bright blue eyes and a blinding smile. Chris grinned.

“Lieutenant Kirk,” Chris greeted.

Jim Kirk nodded in greeting. “Doctor Pike.”

Chris nodded to the chair opposite his own. Jim sat. “Why the shit-eating grin?”

Jim’s smile turned sly, and Chris raised his eyebrows. “I have news,” he said cryptically.

“I gathered,” Chris deadpanned. “And...?”

Jim’s grin grew huge and excited. “I’m engaged!”

It took a second for the shock wave to impact Chris. When it did, he shook his head a little, trying to reorient himself. “Come again?”

Jim laughed a high, giddy little laugh. “We’ve been talking about it for a couple of months - nothing concrete, just kind of a _what if_ \- but yeah, Bones asked me to marry him last night! When we get back from this training exercise next week we’re going to go to the courthouse!”

Chris turned the idea over in his mind a couple of times before he spoke again, his attention zeroing in on all the reasons why this was a terrible idea, trying to find a way to bring that up with Jim without completely alienating him.

“This is a terrible idea,” he finally managed. (He never said tact was his first instinct - at least, not where Jim was concerned.)

Jim’s face descended from elation through confusion to sadness, and then ratcheted right back up to fury, impressively fast. “What?” he said icily.

Chris tried, bless him, to soften what he’d just said. “Jim...you’re so... _young._ And you’re so _idealistic._ You don’t know what marriage does to you, what it’s really like.”

Jim blustered at that. “Neither did you, before you got married.”

“Yeah,” Chris agreed, “and look where that got me. Do you want to end up like me?”

“A professional success who’s been in a strong and loving relationship for more than fifteen years? No, why the hell would I want that?” Jim shot back.

“That is _not_ what I mean and you _know it._ Jim, divorce is _hell,_ especially when you’re this young. It broke me apart. I lost self-esteem, self-respect, friends, money, time, _my mind._ Do you want that? Do you want to wake up and face that realization that you’ve bonded yourself to someone before you even knew yourself? Do you want the screaming matches and the nights on the couch and the division of assets? Do you want to feel trapped every time you look at him?”

Jim’s face was beet red. “Why are you jumping to the conclusion that this is a mistake?”

Chris gave Jim a long-suffering look. “Because you’re exactly like me, and I was exactly like you when I got married, and I don’t want you to suffer the same way I did.” He scrubbed his face with one hand. “Look, I’m just trying to protect you.”

“My ass,” Jim shot back, rising from his chair. “I am _not_ exactly like you, Chris. For one thing, I didn’t pick the wrong fucking sex for my spouse, so jot that down - ”

 _“Watch it,”_ Chris spat dangerously.

“ - and second, if you don’t get over this goddamn _complex_ of yours about how marriage dooms relationships, then you’re gonna lose Phil too.” Jim paused significantly, giving Chris a chance to feel all the blood in his veins turn to ice. “He’s wanted to marry you since I was a _kid,_ Chris. He’s been putting up with this for a _long time_ and if you think for a second that he’s gonna do it forever then you’re fucking delusional.”

There was a long, tense silence in which Chris could swear he felt an aneurysm coming on. His pulse throbbed in his temple and he felt queasy from the adrenaline rush. “Yeah, I think we’re done here,” he finally intoned darkly. “You know the way out.”

Jim stomped out in a manner rather unbecoming the uniform he was wearing and slammed the door shut behind him. Chris, who had been ready to leave the office before _that_ happened, sat for ten minutes, ostensibly to let his blood pressure cool off before he got behind the wheel - but it was only once he was sure Jim couldn’t be in the building anymore that he shoved his laptop in his bag and headed home.

As soon as he walked in the door, he threw his stuff down and headed downstairs. He could hear Phil banging around in their little makeshift bunker in the basement. When he reached the foot of the stairs, he found Phil in yoga clothes, standing in front of a shelf with one earbud in, swinging his hips and tunelessly singing along with whatever he was listening to as he stacked gallon jugs of water. Chris walked up to him and immediately planted his face into Phil’s back, right between his shoulder blades, groaning loudly.

“Hey you,” Phil murmured, grabbing hold of Chris’ hands and wrapping them around his middle. “Bad day?” Chris just grunted, nodding. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Jim problems,” Chris grumbled without raising his face.

“Been a while since you two were at it,” Phil noted, turning around, pausing his phone, and taking out his earbud. Phil wrapped his arms around Chris’ neck and sighed. “What is it this time?”

Chris looked up at Phil morosely. “He tells me he’s getting married.”

Phil raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. “Really?”

“Really. After he and Len get back from some training exercise or something. So I told him it was a terrible idea - ”

Phil winced. “Oh _god_ , Chris…”

“ - and it just kind of snowballed from there...I said some things I didn’t mean, he said some things he...well, _better_ not have meant.”

Phil shook his head, smiling a long-suffering smile, and leaned back against their old dining room table, which was now piled high with boxes of their old textbooks and ten-year-old tax forms. “God, you two are so much alike it pains me,” he sighed, stretching his body into a long, slim line and folding his arms.

“That’s what I tried to tell him. I don’t want him to repeat my mistakes.”

“That is not at all what I mean,” Phil clarified. “I mean you’re so alike in that you’re so fucking _stubborn_ that I’d smack you both if I didn’t love you so damn much.”

Chris cautiously directed his glare to a can of black beans on the shelf and not to Phil.

“He’s a big boy, Chrissy,” Phil said. “Even if this _is_ a mistake, he’s gotta make it on his own.”

“Even if it ruins his life?”

Phil audibly swallowed, his face getting serious. “Your marriage did not ruin your life, Chris,” he corrected softly. “It made a few months of your life miserable - hell, it made a few months of _my_ life miserable - but it did _not_ ruin it. You’ve gotta let that _go,_ honey. It was just a mistake. Granted, a big one, but just a mistake. You fixed it. And you have a good life now. _We_ have a good life now. Worst case scenario, Jim does the same thing.” Phil averted his eyes, fiddling with the latches on their first aid kit. “And just for the record, I don’t think worst case scenario is coming for them. You like Len a lot, and so do I. They’ve been together forever. He’s good for Jim - you know that. I can see them being in it for the long haul.”

Chris reached out and squeezed Phil’s hand, sighing heavily. “Maybe...maybe you’re right.”

Phil just smiled, squeezed his hand back, and nodded. He opened his mouth to speak again, then got cut off as his phone rang.

“You on call?”

“Yeah, Flores had to go to El Paso for a funeral,” Phil said absently, before answering the phone. “Dr. Boyce...uh huh... _damn_. She allergic to anything?...Okay, go ahead and prep two of ancef and I’m on my way. Thanks, Emma.”

“You gotta go,” Chris interpreted.

“I gotta go,” Phil confirmed on a sigh. “Postpartum c-section patient with a wound infection. I doubt I’ll be long.”

“Anything in here you want me to do while you’re out?”

Phil smiled, a little surprised. “Well, there might be a reward in it for you if you finish stacking our food supply up on the shelves.”

Chris raised an eyebrow. “A reward, you say?”

Phil lightly swatted Chris on the ass and made for the stairs. “Patience, pretty boy.”

~

 _May 30_  
_Sausalito, California  
_ _3:52 a.m._

 

Chris woke, dazed, to a shrill sound coming from his phone. He blinked awake, rolling over and disentangling himself from Phil, just as Phil’s phone started making the same noise on the adjacent nightstand. He squinted into the brightness of the screen, needing to give his eyes a second to adjust before he could read.

_THIS IS A CIVIL DEFENSE EMERGENCY. UNITED STATES PACIFIC COAST: TAKE IMMEDIATE SHELTER. MULTIPLE BALLISTIC MISSILES INCOMING. EXPECTED IMPACT: TEN MINUTES. TUNE TO RADIO FOR FURTHER DETAILS._

Chris blinked, momentarily paralyzed, and then vaguely felt himself start to tremble. Blindly reaching behind him, he jostled Phil’s shoulder. “Phil. _Phil_ . Get up. _Now.”_

Phil grimaced, eyes fluttering open, and Chris sprang out of bed, running around to Phil’s side and pulling him up to his feet. “Chris, what - ” Phil began, cut off by the rising and falling tone of a siren outside. Chris watched as all the color drained from his lover’s face.

“We have ten minutes,” Chris managed to say.

From there, it was a scramble. The two of them darted around the house, gathering what was most important and least replaceable - wallets, ID, a copy of Phil’s medical license. Chris grabbed his phone out of habit, knowing full well that if this was really real, it wasn’t likely to do him much good in a few minutes. His pill bottle by the bed clattered to the floor as he unplugged the phone; he barely registered the sound as he ran to the kitchen. Phil plucked two pictures off their living room shelves: one of him with Chris, years ago, smiling and dancing at the wedding of one of Phil’s colleagues; and another of Chris with Jim, their arms around each other, the day Jim got his wings.

The sirens kept droning, their dissonance and fever pitch somehow making this that much worse, that much more terrifying. Chris practically shoved Phil down the stairs into the basement, then turned to their thermostat, shutting off their air conditioner and grabbing another few bottles of water from the fridge, before joining his partner in the basement, shutting and locking the door.

“Help me move this,” Phil said, gesturing, and Chris helped him shove a huge old bookcase in front of the door at the top of the steps for extra security, their strength somehow amplified by their adrenaline.

“Go, go, _go,”_ Phil ordered Chris, pointing downward, as Chris scrambled downstairs and darted under the old dining room table, laden with boxes and wooden planks and sandbags - their designated spot for waiting out the worst of an attack. Phil had already been under here getting set up, Chris realized; some supplies were already there, including flashlights, the radio, a blanket, spare batteries, and a few bottles of water. Phil crawled in after him and yanked the box of his old med school textbooks back over the entrance, sealing them into the tiny space.

Chris flicked on the flashlight and looked to Phil, who was ashen.

“C’mere,” Chris said, opening his arms. Phil scooted over, letting himself be embraced, and wrapped his arms around Chris’ middle. Chris set the flashlight between his crossed legs and reached for his phone. Heart galloping, he speed-dialed Jim’s number, their fight last week be damned. He didn’t have enough information to not jump to the worst of all possible conclusions. Where was this training exercise Jim had mentioned? Had Jim and Len already left for it? Were they at home still, or not at home but still in danger, or somewhere totally safe, far from this madness? Was Jim afraid? Was he nestled in Len’s arms right now like Phil was in his, wondering the same thing about Chris and Phil?

_Was he going to die tonight?_

Phil gently broke in, trying to interject some reason not to panic. “Chris, if he’s on base, he might not have his phone on - ”

_“Hi, you’ve reached James T. Kirk. I’m not available right now, but leave me a message and I’ll call you back. Thanks!”_

Pressure built up behind Chris’ eyes that he refused to acknowledge. He ended the call, then forcefully redialed.

Phil tightened his grip on Chris just a little bit. “Sweetheart - ”

 _“Shh,”_ Chris snapped, hearing the phone ring four times.

_“Hi, you’ve reached James T. Kirk. I’m not available right now, but…”_

Jim’s outgoing message trailed off into a burst of static.

Chris and Phil looked at one another.

“Oh god,” Phil said softly into the silence.

A low, rumbling _boom_ reverberated in the distance.

They secured their grips on one another. Phil’s eyes grew saucer-wide and Chris felt his heartbeat jump into his throat. “Where was it?” Chris managed.

“I don’t know,” Phil answered.

_Boom._

A little tremor in the floor above them. Chris tightened his grip around Phil’s shoulders.

“Oh god, how many of them are there?” Phil said.

_Boom._

They were getting louder. They were closing in. Chris heard glass upstairs break.

_Boom._

Deafening rumbling from above. The sirens quickly fell silent. The extrapolation that they were silent because they were no longer standing was somehow far worse than the uptick in panic when they were screaming. Chris buried his face in Phil’s hair, clutching him, trying with all his might not to think about Jim, where he was, if he was safe, if he was weeping or burning or vaporized, if he had Len there to comfort him, if he was sparing a thought for Chris and Phil.

 _Boom_. The loudest explosion yet.

Phil wept into Chris’ shirt, thinking of the fucking _waste_ . All the people he worked with, all the people he loved, all the people he’d helped be born, all their friends, all his patients, all Chris’ students, their son and his fiance, all the death and destruction - for fucking _what?_

_Boom._

A _huge_ cacophony from upstairs - probably their house being flattened, or blown off its foundation, or charred. Chris crouched down lower, clinging to Phil. “When’s it gonna be over?” he panted, voice sounding alien and hysterical.

Phil just shook his head, dampening Chris’ shirt with more tears.

_Boom._

The thought entered as a tickle at the back of Chris’ mind. _We might die in here._

_Boom._

The thought of Phil’s voice, somber and soft, joined in. _“I just want to marry you.”_

 _Boom_.

Then the realization, eerily calm. _I don’t want to die without being married to this man._

_Boom._

Chris took Phil’s chin and shakily tilted it up, forcing Phil’s precious blue eyes to meet his own. He ran a hand down Phil’s cheek, and against the backdrop of _boom_ s, began to speak, reverently as a prayer.

“I, Christopher, take you, Philip, to be my lawfully wedded husband.”

 _Boom._ Tears slid down Phil’s cheeks. Chris cupped his face and held it close.

“To have and to hold, from this day forward.”

_Boom._

“For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health…”

 _Boom_. A cracking noise. More broken glass.

“To love and to cherish, as long as we both shall live.”

 _Boom._ They were getting closer, louder.

“I, Philip, take you, Christopher…”

_Boom._

_Boom._

_BOOM._

They kissed, to seal their vows. An ear-splitting detonation at that very moment made Chris clutch at Phil’s shoulders and Phil whimper into Chris’ mouth. The basement rattled around them ferociously; Chris could’ve sworn he felt blast-heat, but didn’t know if that was his imagination or not. They held tight to one another, praying to gods neither of them believed in, trying to brace themselves for an end they were now certain was seconds away…

...and then it fell suddenly and horribly silent.

No further _boom_ s. No further shaking. No further sounds of breaking glass or splintering wood. Just the sound of thready, tenuous breaths.

“Is it over?” Phil ventured.

Chris shook his head. “I don’t know.”

~

 _June 2_  
_Sausalito, California  
_ _Three days after_

 

No bombs were heard for three days.

Little was heard at all, actually. The radio had long since gone off the air, in spite of their many attempts to get a signal. Chris and Phil rarely spoke, living in their own heads. Phil privately likened it to what he imagined the experience of being hit by a truck might feel like: the impact itself, and its associated disbelief, followed by the long, long absorption of shock waves.

Chris couldn’t think of anything but Jim. He found himself musing morbidly on the idea that Jim was not singular. To think of _Jim_ was to think at once of the little boy in the university library clinging to his mom’s pant leg and of the adolescent clinging to him in a courtroom, of the proud, tall, uniformed man getting his wings and of the engaged man all dizzy in love a week ago.

And now, of the man almost certainly dead.

“We don’t know anything for sure,” Phil had said gently, brushing tears off Chris’ cheeks when he’d finally whispered his fears out loud. “We don’t know how bad this was yet. We don’t even know if he and Len were here; you said they were going on a training exercise, right?”

But Chris - in typical Chris catastrophizing manner - just knew. Jim was gone. His son - his boy - was gone.

Dead-eyed, he spent most of his time awake fiddling with the radio, trying to get a signal. The batteries were fine - they’d checked and double-checked - there were just no stations getting through the electromagnetic muck still in the air. There was no one to tell them what to do now, whether it was over, whether it was safe to come up to the surface, if there even _was_ a surface to come up to anymore.

“Are we gonna die in here?” Phil had dared to ask that first night as they lay under their table, wrapped in a thin blanket.

“No,” Chris answered, not at all certain that it was true. “No. We’re stronger than this.”

They drank water straight from gallon jugs, ate cold food out of cans - canned soup, canned tuna, canned beans - and spent most of those days leaning into one another, staring at the radio, willing it back to life. Phil realized two days in, when Chris started sleeping far more than he usually did, that among the things they’d left upstairs when they got the attack warning were Chris’ antidepressants. He wondered with a sinking feeling how they might cope with that going forward.

On the third day, Chris napped while Phil fiddled with the radio, trying desperately to get a signal. Nothing...nothing...then, against all odds, a crackle. A voice. A woman’s voice.

“Chris!” Phil exclaimed, shaking his husband awake. _“Chris!_ The radio!”

Chris wiped his eyes and sat up, wrapping an arm around Phil, and listened as Phil fine-tuned the knobs so that the signal was audible.

_“...the Red Cross says that the need for blood is not urgent at this time, but that that is only because whatever survivors there may be cannot yet be accessed and treated. They have urged all blood donors, or people eligible to donate blood, to be on standby in the coming weeks and months, as the available blood supply will no doubt become critical.”_

Neither Phil nor Chris were big radio listeners, but even they recognized the voice as one of the leading journalists in the country, no doubt placed on the airwaves to inspire confidence.

_“It’s the top of the hour now and we’re going to do another recap of the events of the past three days. Now, I know this may seem repetitive to those of you outside the attack area, but we must remind you that we do not know who, if anyone, might be joining us at any given time from the attack zone - and so we continue to repeat these details for anyone who might be in a shelter or bunker or somewhere else where they might not know what exactly has happened._

_“With that in mind, this is the situation. At just before four o’clock in the morning local time on May 30, a catastrophic nuclear attack on the Pacific coast of the United States began. An unknown number of actual bombs were deployed, but based on the extent of damage as surveyed by aircraft, estimates range from fifteen to fifty separate devices. Virtually all major metropolitan areas on the west coast are, for lack of a more appropriate term, wiped out. Lighter damage has been reported as far inland as Phoenix, Arizona.”_

Phil winced and pursed his lips, trying to keep tears from falling. Chris sat stone-faced.

_“The worst of the damage appears to be in California. After reviewing the photographs captured by surveillance aircraft, expert consensus is that there is no reasonable chance of survivors in southern California and southern Nevada, including in Los Angeles, San Diego, Las Vegas, San Bernardino, and the Mojave Desert.”_

Chris made a high, choking sound, hands coming up to steeple over his face, and squeezed his eyes shut. Phil embraced him as his shoulders began to shake with the realization that his hometown was unquestionably gone.

 _“Farther north, San Francisco’s damage is no less unimaginable, with fires still burning in many areas. Damage in Oregon and Washington State is similarly horrific, with scorched earth and trees and buildings flattened. No hard casualty numbers have yet been issued, but estimates are that the total number of survivors may - we emphasize,_ may - _number in the thousands. We remind you, prior to this attack, around fifty million people lived on the west coast of the US.”_

The journalist on the air paused, taking an audible deep breath to compose herself.

 _“Neither Canada nor Mexico were directly impacted by any weapons of attack, though Baja California and far southwestern British Columbia have suffered minor blast damage, with two confirmed deaths in Tijuana. As to the status of the federal government and its response to this catastrophe, we currently have more questions than answers. The President, Vice President, leaders of Congress, and most other government officials appear to have simply disappeared, though none were in the attack zone and none are presumed dead. Presently, our armed forces do not have a known Commander in Chief, and at home and abroad are having to organize for themselves. We are in a state of_ de facto _martial law in the United States, with a sunup-to-sundown curfew imposed in every American city with a population of over five thousand people. Military authorities are directing any survivors who may be listening to stay where they are until given further instruction by radio. Leaving whatever shelter you are in right now exposes you to highly radioactive material, and it can - and likely will - kill you._

_“Unsurprisingly, the effects of the attack on the stock market have been…”_

Phil turned the radio down, but not off, lest they lose the signal again, and wrapped his arms more fully around Chris, holding him as he wept. Chris had no siblings; his mother had died years ago and he hadn’t spoken to his father since he left home at seventeen, but the newfound certainty that his father was gone, without them ever having a chance to work out the mess that lingered between them - and certainly the horrific manner in which his father probably died - was killing him.

“Sweetheart,” Phil said softly, rocking Chris a little bit.

“My dad, Phil,” Chris wept brokenly. “My _dad.”_

Phil pressed his forehead to Chris’, thumbing tears off his cheeks. “I’m so sorry, my love,” he whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Chris cried and cried until he cried himself back to sleep, Phil’s hand stroking his hair the whole time. Phil ate a protein bar without tasting it, said a silent farewell to the father-in-law he’d never known, then lay down next to Chris.

~

 _June 10_  
_Sausalito, California  
_ Eleven days after

 

After nearly two weeks underground, word came through on the radio that fallout danger in the Bay Area had fallen low enough that survivors could exit their shelters with extreme caution.

 _“Now, the United States military has set up two...well, essentially, refugee camps, for any survivors who are able to make their way there,”_ the now-familiar voice of journalist Hannah Washington said over the radio. _“One camp is in Las Cruces, New Mexico; the other is in Vancouver, British Columbia. These locations are as close to the impact areas as possible, where radioactive material is in low enough concentrations to present the least hazard to troops and survivors._

 _“Canadian and British forces are actively assisting US troops at both camps, and the governments of Mexico, Germany, India, and Australia have all offered material, financial, and personnel assistance should it be further required. We would hope this would go without saying, but in light of contemporary political tone, we should further reassure all survivors that they need not present proof of American citizenship in order to receive aid at one of these camps. The official recommendation of US military personnel - who, we will remind you, are_ de facto _in charge of the country right now - is that any and all survivors who are able to should make their way either to Las Cruces or to Vancouver as quickly as possible.”_

Chris consulted a framed map of North America that hung on the wall of the basement, onto which he and Phil had thumbtacked places they’d visited together. “Vancouver’s closer,” he said quietly.

Phil nodded numbly. He was staring up at the bookcase at the top of their stairs, blockading the door to the basement, terrified of what they were about to find when they walked out of there. Chris followed his eyes with trepidation.

Phil took a deep breath, steeling himself, then marched up the stairs and grabbed hold of the bookcase. “No sense putting it off. Grab an end.”

Chris climbed the stairs and did as he was told. They shoved the bookcase away and locked eyes for a long moment before Chris dared to flip the locks and open the door.

Phil knew it was bad when Chris cracked open the door, let out a horrified gasp, then turned back and had to compose himself. Phil put a steadying hand on his back. Chris took a couple of deep breaths, then swung the door wide.

Phil nearly threw up. Their home - their adorable, quaint little home, that they’d planned for and saved for and lived in and loved in for ten years - was _gone_ . In its place lay broken glass and debris and char. He and Chris took a few tentative steps out; Phil could see into what used to be their living room, the melted, sad-looking remnants of his laptop on the floor. The roof in the kitchen was caved in, and what used to be their guest room/office was just... _gone,_ a gaping maw where it used to be. He walked back to the bedroom; their bed was an ash-heap with drywall collapsed on top of it, the stack of final exams Chris had been scheduled to administer three days ago burnt to a crisp and only recognizable by shape. Phil looked out onto the street through a shattered window; several of their neighbors’ homes weren’t even there anymore, and the few that were still standing were damaged beyond repair, many of them still burning. The street was silent. Their whole block was gone. Hell, all of Sausalito appeared to be gone.

“Phil.” Chris’ voice was raw and pained, and his eyes were full of tears. Phil held out his arms and Chris buried himself in them, trembling, in the remnants of their kitchen.

“Our house is gone, Phil,” Chris said in a tiny voice, right into the skin of Phil’s neck. “Everything is gone. What do we do now?”

Phil kissed Chris’ temple. “We start over. Okay? We start over.”

Chris stepped back, running a hand over his face. “We...we can’t even...our _cars_ , Phil. Our _cars_ are gone. How are we supposed to get to Vancouver when our _cars_ are gone?”

Phil licked his lips. “We have to get there somehow. We can’t stay here.”

“How?”

Phil paused, thinking, then looked up at Chris, giving a tiny, pained shrug. “We’ll have to walk.”

 _“Walk?!”_ Chris burst. “It’s a thousand miles away; you want us to _walk?!”_

“Do you have a better idea?” Phil asked numbly. “Either we walk the whole way there or we find someone who has a functional car and hitch a ride with them; either way, we’re gonna have to walk to whatever passes for civilization now. Think about it, Chris. What’s the alternative?”

A long, tense pause hung in the air while Chris’ jaw worked. Finally, he sighed, quick and deep. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Yeah, you’re right. Just... _god.”_

“I know,” Phil said softly. “I know.”

Chris nodded, then let out a shuddering breath. “We should go back down...pack up what we can to take it with us.”

It took about an hour of sorting between essentials and nonessentials. They’d prepared pretty well for sheltering in place during the attack, as evidenced by the fact that they were still alive, but they hadn’t put nearly as much time or energy into preparing for evacuation. They’d tossed a couple things they might need into their shelter - their hiking boots, a couple of backpacks, a compass Chris had inexplicably saved from his Boy Scout days - but nothing substantial, and certainly not enough to walk for a thousand miles.

“We’ll just have to make it work,” Chris mumbled numbly, unzipping one of the backpacks.

They wound up filling both packs with the folded mylar blanket, Phil’s first aid kit, two flashlights, spare batteries, their radio, the can opener, extra socks, their IDs and birth certificates, Phil’s medical license, and the two photographs Phil had managed to save before the attack. All the rest of their space was taken up by as much water and food as they could carry. Chris clipped the compass to his belt loop.

“There’s only enough food here for...maybe three days? And I’m being very conservative there,” Phil noted as they were zipping up their packs.

Chris made a nondescript noise low in his throat. “Guess we’ll have to figure out a plan then.”

The only plan Phil could think of was to loot or steal, and by the set of Chris’ shoulders, it didn’t look like he had any better ideas at the moment.

At the last minute, Chris yanked down the North American map on the wall that he’d consulted earlier in the day, thumbtacks scattering sadly on the floor as he did, and shoved it in his back pocket. “It’s a straight shot up I-5,” he said. “Assuming I-5 still exists, which...well.”

They climbed back up the stairs, Phil starting again at the horrorscape that used to be their home, then stood in their kitchen for a few moments, holding one another. A gentle breeze flowed in through the broken windows and splintered drywall, whistling ominously.

“We’re gonna be okay, right?” Phil asked, his voice embarrassingly childlike.

“We better be,” Chris answered. “I’m not done with you yet.”

With one last long look around their first home together, they squeezed hands and left.

~

 _June 13_  
_Near Willows, California  
_ _Fourteen days after_

 

They worked out a system quickly.

Wake as early as possible and eat something. Pee. Get on the road. Be on the lookout for other survivors and anything that looks like a functional vehicle. Don’t pass a supermarket or convenience store without at least peering in to see if there’s food or water to pilfer. Walk as long as possible without stopping. Consult the radio every few hours at least. Talk, so that boredom doesn’t overwhelm. Don’t turn on the flashlights until the sun’s below the horizon to conserve battery life. Try to find shelter for sleep - schools and apartment buildings seemed best - but if they’re unavailable, find a ditch or a field and sleep on the blanket.

(That’s what they did their very first night of walking, both of them sinking heavily onto the blanket they’d spread onto the ground and splitting a can of food for dinner with full intentions of getting back up and walking some more before they stopped for the night. But then Chris, leaning back on the stump of a downed tree with Phil leaning back into him, sleepily mumbled _I wouldn’t mind falling asleep out here._ Phil couldn’t help but say _then do,_ and so Chris did.)

Repeat until Canada.

They’d settled into this routine nicely, until near the end of their fourth day on the road. They were walking along when Chris, who was slightly ahead, saw something that made his heart rate tick upward. He stopped and held out his arm, blocking Phil’s path.

“What?” Phil said softly.

Chris nodded ahead. Phil followed his gaze. About twenty yards ahead, the figure of a man lay on the side of the road.

Phil blinked a few times, looking for movement - he saw none - and then took off toward the figure at a jog.

“Phil - Phil, don’t - _don’t -_ ”

But Phil did anyway, arriving at the man’s side quickly. He was younger than Phil and Chris, maybe around thirty, with fair hair and greying skin. Phil felt for a radial pulse, then a jugular one, but the skin below his fingertips stayed eerily still.

“He’s dead,” Phil said hollowly, standing back up. “Probably only in the last couple of hours.”

“From what?” Chris asked.

Phil shrugged. “Radiation? Dehydration? Exhaustion? It’s the end of the world, babe; the differential couldn’t be wider.”

Chris stayed silent at that, and both of them stared at the body for a long moment. Finally, Chris asked, “Should we...should we bury him?”

Phil considered it for a moment, then shook his head. “We don’t have the tools for it,” he said. “And we can’t justify the lost calories trying to do it with our hands. Stirring up dirt might kick up fallout, too.” He sighed heavily. “As awful as it is, the smart thing to do is to just leave him here.”

Chris silently nodded. Neither he nor Phil were religious at all - though Phil had some vaguely spiritual inclinations, Chris had only an academic interest in religion - but it felt, for a brief moment, like they were praying for this man. To whom, Chris couldn’t say.

It was Phil who broke the silence. “We should go.”

Chris nodded, then thought twice. Kneeling down, he began to rifle through the man’s pockets.

“Chris, what are you _doing?!”_ Phil asked incredulously.

“He might have things we can use,” Chris answered, pulling out a cigarette lighter, two long pieces of twine, and a dollar and thirty-seven cents. When Phil stayed silent, Chris looked up; his expression was conflicted, somewhat horrified and somewhat resigned. “Look, he’s obviously not going to use them. But we could.”

Moving the man’s jacket out of the way on his right hip, Chris pursed his lips and Phil let out a weak noise of fear. Chris took a steadying breath and pulled the Glock from the man’s hip holster, then found a crumpled Clif bar and a few shells in his other pocket.

“Chris…” Phil said, in a low voice into which he was obviously putting effort to keep even.

“I know,” Chris said, preempting Phil’s inevitable objection to their carrying a firearm. “But we don’t know what we’re gonna find out here. I’m not taking a chance that we might get hurt. That _you_ might get hurt.”

Chris looked from the gun in his hand up to Phil, then held Phil’s gaze. It was tense and quiet between them, and Phil was trembling a little; when he spoke, his voice was low, and it had a heartbeat in it. “I want you to swear to me _right now,_ Christopher Pike, that you will not use that gun unless one of us is in immediate danger.”

“Why the hell would I use it otherwise?” Chris asked; his voice sounded tired and hollow.

“Goddammit, Chris, _promise me,”_ Phil begged. “I _hate_ those fucking things, and there’s not a hell of a lot I hate in the world.”

Taking a deep breath, Chris nodded solemnly. “I promise, Phil.”

Phil blinked a few times in rapid succession, then nodded. “Let’s go.”

Chris carefully put the gun away, and they kept walking.

~

 _June 15_  
_Just north of Redding, California  
_ _Sixteen days after_

 

“Tell me a secret,” Chris said late at night, reaching for Phil’s hand and giving it a squeeze. They’d been walking all day without stopping, except for bathroom breaks, and were both exhausted, but there seemed to be no decent place to stop for the night anywhere around them.

Phil frowned, puzzled. “Huh?”

“Tell me a secret,” Chris repeated. “Something you’ve never told me.”

Phil gave Chris a small, bewildered smile, then rolled his neck. “We’ve been sharing a bed for fifteen years; you think there’s anything about me you don’t know?”

“C’mon,” Chris said, knocking his shoulder against Phil’s. “Keep me awake. Tell me things.”

Phil considered it. It was too dark for Chris to see the sneaky, self-satisfied expression his face took on. “All right,” Phil said smugly. “Here’s a secret for you. I’ve been feeding you soy bacon since 2006.”

Chris turned to Phil and gasped overdramatically. “You...you... _blasphemy!”_

Phil shrugged. “You couldn’t tell the difference, could you?”

“I...I...that’s not the _point!”_ Chris sputtered. “It’s the _principle_ of the thing!”

 _“Please._ You knew I was a vegetarian when we were in college. Don’t go all pearl-clutching fainting lady on me. The first aid kit doesn’t have smelling salts.”

Chris shook his head. _“Soy bacon,”_ he muttered under his breath.

Phil snickered. “Okay, turnabout’s fair play. Tell _me_ a secret.”

“How do I top your betrayal?”

“God, how does anyone who knows us think _I’m_ the dramatic one?”

Phil could _feel_ Chris’ eyes burning into his cheek. “Fine,” Chris said primly. “I slept with Laura in college.”

Phil had no discernible reaction to the statement.

“Did...did you hear me?”

“Just now, you mean, or when you were having sex with Laura?”

“You _knew?!”_

“Chris, our entire floor knew. Quiet in bed you are not.”

Chris leaned his head back and groaned loudly into the night. “Okay, fine, fine,” he muttered. “Your turn.”

Phil paused, grabbed Chris’ attention with the flashlight, and nodded across the street. A heavily damaged but still standing building stood; it looked like it probably used to be a school. Chris nodded wordlessly and they began making their way over.

“I cheated off you on an econ final,” Phil admitted, resuming their game.

Chris paused. “Is that the one you got a C on?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that _why_ you got a C on it?”

“Yeah.”

Chris winced. “Sorry.”

The windows of the school were blown out, so climbing inside wasn’t a problem, and they landed in what was apparently the cafeteria. The roof was partially caved in, so they didn’t have a ton of space in which to move, but it was plenty for sleeping. Chris and Phil shrugged at one another, then dropped their packs along the wall, shaking out their blanket.

“You weren’t the first guy I kissed,” Chris admitted.

Phil dropped the blanket. _“What?!”_

Chris looked up at him, lips tightening with the need to withhold a smile. “It was just once,” Chris quickly covered. “This guy in high school, Gabriel. We were...enemies with sexual tension.”

“You didn’t…” Phil swallowed. “You didn’t do anything... _else_ ...with this _Gabriel_ guy, did you?”

 _“God,_ no,” Chris laughed, settling onto the blanket. “He was an asshole. An asshole with terrible breath.” Phil snickered, settling into the crook of Chris’ arm. “You were the first kiss with a guy that _counted,”_ Chris clarified.

Phil chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Chris squeezed Phil’s shoulder, trying to get his attention. Phil looked up at him. “Tell me a secret,” Chris said softly, his voice leading.

Phil sighed, then rested his forehead on Chris’ collarbone. “I don’t feel well.”

“I knew it.”

“It hurts when I pee. I’ve got a bladder infection, and I think it’s moving up to my kidneys.”

“Makes sense. Not enough water. Not enough sanitation.” Chris brushed the hair off Phil’s forehead and pressed his cheek there. “Yeah, you’re warm.” Chris opened his pack, yanking out a full bottle of water, and handed it over. “Drink.”

Phil took a couple of tentative sips.

“Yeah, no. If I were the sick one, you’d be busting my balls for that. _Drink_ , Phil. _Gulps.”_

Phil capped the bottle. “We can’t afford to waste water.”

“It’s not a waste if it’s saving your life. _Drink_ , dammit.”

Phil drank.

“Got any antibiotics in the first aid kit?”

“I have some sulfa,” Phil said. “Six pills. From when you had that ear infection over Christmas, before they changed your antibiotic.”

“Would that work for this?” Chris asked.

“Probably,” Phil said. “It’s what I usually prescribe for a UTI. But it’s the only antibiotic we have; if one of us gets sick again before we get somewhere with medical care…”

“Well then, we’ll just have to be careful, won’t we?” Chris said, flipping the switches on the first aid kit and fishing out the bottle. “Take them, Phil. You’ve told me stories; these things can get nasty if you don’t treat them.”

Unfortunately, Chris was right. Phil held out his hand; Chris shook a pill into his hand, and Phil obediently swallowed it. They lay back down, Phil curling up into Chris, and Chris rubbed his tender mid-back with one hand.

“I cheated off _you_ on a microbiology midterm,” Chris said softly.

“The one you got a B on?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that why you got a B on it?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re welcome.”

~

 _June 20_  
_Medford, Oregon  
_ _Twenty-one days after_

 

Chris had been a journal-keeper since his early twenties. The first therapist he’d ever seen back in college had recommended it to him, and even though he’d scoffed at the idea at first, he eventually found that there was a lot of peace to be had in disentangling his thoughts with the written word. Somewhere in the ashes of what used to be his and Phil’s bedroom in Sausalito, there lay a glowing pile of embers that once represented a written record of the past twenty-five years of Chris’ life - everything from his mother’s death to his decision to adopt Jim, from his marriage and divorce to the first whispers of his love for Phil and the grappling with his sexuality. He worked it all out in print before he worked it out for real, and now it was scattered to the wind.

His fingers itched for a pen and paper right now.

He looked over as Phil snuffled in his sleep and brushed the hair out of his husband’s eyes. It had grown fairly long now, and he had a healthy crop of stubble, too. Phil despised not being clean-shaven. One of Chris’ earliest memories of Phil from when they’d first met was of Phil whining about not being able to get the close shave he wanted from the cheap-ass disposable razors that were all they could afford in college. This was no doubt driving him crazy, but he hadn’t said a peep about it. Not that there weren’t bigger fish to fry right now.

Chris should’ve been sleeping, too, but he’d been awakened by his thoughts, and was now stuck in a damnable loop of thinking about the people who were undoubtedly gone now. Laura, his dearest forever friend, an incredible teacher and the most brilliant criminologist he’d ever known. His dad - which made Chris the last Pike in the line, he realized with a start. His ex-wife, whose only real crime, Chris had come to understand long after the fact, had been not being Phil. All his students were probably gone, too - Roberta, the tall brilliant one who wrote such a nuanced paper on race and ethnicity in criminal justice; Ben, who’d started the school year as Bethany on his roster and had leaned on Chris for support and strength; Stacey, the one with the wild hair who’d hugged him last year at graduation and thanked him for changing her life.

 _Jim_ , something hummed underneath all of those thoughts. _You’re avoiding thinking about Jim._

Jim, the sweet blue-eyed boy, looking with intimidated fascination at a book on planes in the university library. Jim, breaking down on the stand, cowering under the piercing gaze of the great-aunt who was inexplicably battling Chris for custody, telling the judge _I wanna go with Chris._ Jim, sitting next to Chris at the kitchen table in their old apartment, twelve and too perceptive, asking him point blank _Why aren’t you dating Phil?_ Jim, proud and tall and uniformed, getting his wings. Jim, four weeks ago, in love and engaged and happy until Chris shot it all down for him.

Chris squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing them with the pads of his fingers, and tried to control his breathing, so as not to wake Phil.  In his mind’s eye, he could picture Jim’s reaction to their impromptu wedding vows at the end of the world. He’d have been all smug and knowing, Chris knew, with this undercurrent of utter delight. It would’ve been lovely to see. Chris wished he’d have gotten that chance.

God, being without his meds was a real bitch.

Phil let out a tiny whimper in his sleep and grimaced. Chris made a low shushing sound, continuing to stroke his hair, and Phil settled. Chris wondered if he was having bad dreams.

He’d taught Phil how to shoot this morning. It was unavoidable; they both had to know how to use that damn gun they’d acquired, in case one needed to use it to protect the other. Phil had immediately balked at the idea - it was barbaric, he’d said; he was a healer, he’d said; _do you know what those things do to people who hit my ER?,_ he’d said. But Chris had insisted, and his justification made sense, so under immense protest, Phil acquiesced.

Most of the lesson was theory-based, but Phil fired exactly one shot, which landed with picture-perfect accuracy on the target, a certain obvious knot in a blown-over sheet of plywood. Chris looked to him afterward, deeply impressed by his aim, but Phil was vaguely green.

“How do you feel?” Chris asked gently.

“Like I just did something terrible,” Phil answered.

Chris had gently taken the gun from Phil’s hands and hugged him as Phil trembled madly. “I’ve protested against those things, for god’s sake,” he breathed tightly against Chris’ shoulder.

“I know,” Chris murmured into Phil’s hair. “I know, love.”

It was that, Chris realized, that was probably triggering this flood of nostalgia for Jim. The only other time Chris had ever held a gun, it had been in defense of Jim, who’d been clinging to Chris’ pant leg and weeping into his side as his stepfather drunkenly shouted about _“the worthless little bastard”_ so loudly Chris’ teeth had rattled. He’d wrenched the gun away from Frank before anything unthinkable had happened, picked Jim up, and gotten him the hell out of there. An hour later, the boy had been wrapped in a blanket on Chris’ couch, sipping lukewarm tomato soup from a mug and trembling, and Chris was on the phone tearfully begging Phil - at the time, a sleep-deprived resident - to come over and help him because _“I may have just accidentally adopted a kid.”_

Phil, bless him, had dropped what he was doing and come over, without even a pause.

Speaking of…

“Chris?” Phil raised his head off the makeshift pillow of his backpack; the movement made the mylar blanket crinkle a little. “‘s matter?”

Chris shook his head. “Had a dream,” he said softly. “I’m okay. Go back to sleep.”

Phil made a little _hmm_ sound, then tugged on Chris’ hand. “Bed’s lonely without you. C’mon.”

Chris smiled a little smile and lay down, curling up in a ball, arms around Phil.

“You wanna talk about it?” Phil asked gently.

Chris shook his head. “Just...thinking about Jim,” he said quietly.

Phil stayed silent for a moment, but tightened his grip on Chris just a tiny bit. When he spoke again, his tone was soft, but amused. “Did I ever tell you that, when we first got together as a couple, he told me that if I ever hurt you, he’d kick my ass?”

Chris looked at Phil incredulously, then burst out laughing. “You’re kidding.”

“He did,” Phil insisted.

“He was _twelve,”_ Chris laughed.

“Yeah, and he tried to be very intimidating about it, too,” Phil continued. “Said you were the best thing that ever happened to him, and if I couldn’t say the same thing about you then I shouldn’t be anywhere near you.” He paused, kissing Chris’ hairline. “Fortunately, I could, so we made peace.” Phil smiled. “We made more than peace. I know he’s yours, but he feels like he’s just as much mine.”

Chris felt burning behind his eyes, but tried to swallow it back. “He was a good boy.”

Phil rocked him a little. “He might still be.”

Chris just shook his head, and then, unable to resist, let the tears fall.

~

 _June 25_  
_Outside of Eugene, Oregon  
_ _Twenty-six days after_

 

The sun was setting, and were it not for the haze in the air, the glare would’ve been downright painful. Squinting, Phil thought for a moment that it would’ve been smart for them to have put some sunglasses into their evacuation kits. On the other hand, this could’ve happened in the dead of winter and they could’ve frozen to death, so by comparison...small victories.

“I love you to death, Phil, but _god,_ you smell,” Chris grumbled moodily.

Phil tried not to glare, but _god_. “Oh, yeah, you’re a real armful of flowers right now,” he snapped. “What’s your beef?”

Chris just shrugged and sighed. “Nothing,” he lied. “Just sick of this. Sorry I snapped. God knows we don’t need to turn on each other on top of everything else.”

Phil softened, then shrugged. “You’ve gotta admit, this is a hell of a good relationship test,” he mumbled. “It’d be a nice preventative against impulse weddings. Before you’re granted a marriage license, you’ve gotta spend a month with only the other person for company, sleep deprivation, cold food, and no hygiene maintenance. They should make teenagers do this when they think they want to get married.”

“Certainly would’ve stopped _my_ first marriage,” Chris intoned before changing the subject. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to knock the sun right out of the sky with a two by four.”

That was a _very_ “unmedicated Chris” way of putting it, but Phil couldn’t disagree. “Good, it’s not just me,” Phil muttered, making grabby hands for Chris’ water bottle.

Chris rolled his neck. “Phil?”

“Yeah?”

“What happens when we get to Vancouver?”

Phil frowned a little at him. “Well, you heard the radio,” he said. “We have to get registered so they know we survived, they’ll decon us, give us medical attention, feed us…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know that,” Chris broke in, “but I mean... _after_ after.” He looked over at Phil. “Do we...do we just, I dunno, live in Canada?”

It didn’t sound like a terrible idea to Phil. “They have hospitals in Canada,” he said. “Universities too. Plenty of babies to catch and twentysomethings to teach. Better healthcare and a longer life expectancy. A government that’s actually, you know, _sane.”_

“What are we supposed to _do,_ though?” Chris pressed. “I mean, I guess our savings is still technically intact; we can live off that for a while until we get actual income. But what about housing? And can your medical license even transfer to Canada? And what about me - they can’t verify my degrees anymore; the school’s gone now, for sure. Unless they look at the papers I’ve published, I guess, which - ”

“You’re panicking,” Phil interrupted gently. “You’re panicking, and it’s counterproductive. Let’s focus on today, okay?”

Chris kicked a pebble. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“I know,” Phil said. “You need plans, you need routine, you need security. You’re a Capricorn. I get it. But we’ve got enough on our plate right now, do we not?”

Chris shrugged morosely. “I guess.” The sun dipped below the horizon, so it was no longer glaring in their eyes. “Oh, thank god.”

Phil unshouldered his pack, tugging it around in front of him, and unzipped it, tugging out the flashlights they’d need soon. “You want dinner?”

Chris craned his neck and looked into Phil’s pack. “What’ve we got?”

“You’ve gotta finish this corned beef hash before it goes bad,” Phil said, handing it over. “I’ll take the pop tarts.”

“Gourmet,” Chris snickered darkly.

“Eat hearty,” Phil mumbled.

There was a long pause in which they only heard the sounds of the other one chewing. It got darker and they switched on the flashlights. Out of the blue, Chris laughed lowly.

“What?” Phil asked, smiling.

“I was just thinking about Jim,” Chris said softly. “Remembering the time we tried to teach him how to use a condom.”

Phil snickered at the memory. “What is this ‘we’ shit? As I recall, I was the actual instructor in that conversation. You just kinda sat there with a cold soda can pressed to your head and rocked back and forth like you were trying to ward off a migraine.”

“I _was,_ and it didn’t work,” Chris said. “Besides, you’re the doctor. I just thought you’d be better at it than me.”

“I didn’t mind,” Phil said. “I was just amused.” Ahead of them, their flashlights crossed paths. “What made you think of that?” he asked.

Chris just shrugged, a fond, sad smile on his face. “I don’t know,” he said. “Just thinking about Jim.”

Phil reached out and squeezed his hand.

Late that night, Chris frowned into the distance. “Is that...is that a motel?”

Phil squinted; it was very hard to tell, because the building was so heavily damaged, but it did look vaguely motel-shaped. “It just might be.”

They crossed the highway, both trying not to shudder at the eeriness of an empty, burnt-out building in the pitch dark. Chris used his flashlight to illuminate the inside of the building; indeed, it did look like a motel - probably a cheap-ass one, but it had actual _beds_ in it, and neither of them had slept on a bed in nearly a month. Phil nearly cried at the sight, letting out a little whimper.

“I know, you like your creature comforts,” Chris said teasingly. “You’re a Cancer.”

“Oh, _god_ , Chris, I want that fucking bed,” Phil groaned.

The window to the room they were looking in was, miraculously but inconveniently, intact and locked. Instead of trying to break it, Chris moved to the next room, and the room after that, looking for a room they could actually get into. They had success on the last room of the row, with Phil climbing in first - he’d never anticipated that his yoga skills would be useful for _this_ \- and then him helping Chris in after him. The second his ass hit the bed, he nearly cried.

“This,” he declared, stretching out on his back, “is the height of luxury.”

Chris rolled his eyes, smiling, and shook his head a little. “What passes for luxury these days.”

“I’d forgotten how nice neck support is,” Phil muttered, wiggling down into the bed a little more.

“Careful, careful,” Chris said, tugging on the mylar blanket under Phil, spreading it out further. “Don’t make contact with the bedding itself. God knows what’s on it.”

Phil nodded, letting his eyes drift closed. He heard Chris fiddling with the radio briefly, then fell into a light doze.

When he stirred later - he wasn’t sure how much later, but he doubted it had been long - it was to the feeling of Chris nestled close behind him, planting a line of lazy kisses along Phil’s cervical spine. Phil let out a small involuntary moan, and Chris chuckled lowly behind him.

“I was starting to wonder when you’d wake up,” Chris murmured.

“Feels nice,” Phil sighed.

Chris nuzzled behind Phil’s ear, then slipped his hands under Phil’s shirt, splaying them on his stomach. He was so close, so preciously close. “I’ve missed this so much,” he whispered earnestly.

Phil let himself float away for a few moments, drifting and savoring the endorphin high of Chris’ touch and kisses. It was so sweet, so loving and beautiful, and _god,_ so very little had been sweet and loving and beautiful in the past month. They were here, in a bed for the first time since the attack, completely alone, insulated from the rest of the world; it would’ve been so easy to just give in, to laugh and kiss and make love and forget and forget and _forget…_

Chris’ hand strayed a little farther north, on a path toward Phil’s chest. In doing so, his hand skittered along Phil’s ribs, now easily palpable under his skin.

Everything stopped for a long moment, and all Phil could hear was Chris’ breath.

Carefully, Phil rolled over in bed to face Chris, whose face was soft and open and also oddly stricken. “You’re too thin, baby,” Chris whispered shakily.

Phil nodded sadly. “You are too,” he said, cupping Chris’ face.

Chris gave a terribly sad little nod of acknowledgement.

Every word out of Phil’s mouth pained him. “We need our strength for walking,” he said, as gently as he possibly could. “We can’t...we can’t spare calories.”

He was glad the word _spare_ had come to him, because _waste_ would’ve implied something that would’ve broken both their hearts even more.

Chris blinked quickly, the muscles in his jaw working, before he gave a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s...that’s a good reason, I guess,” he admitted softly.

Phil stroked a long curl out of Chris’ eyes. “Beats the hell out of _I’ve got a headache,”_ he tried to joke. Chris’ smile grew a little bit, but stayed subdued. “I’m sorry, Chris,” Phil continued. “I wish...well. I wish.”

“Yeah,” Chris said, settling Phil’s head right under his chin. “I wish, too.”

~

 _June 27_  
_Just north of Salem, Oregon  
_ _Twenty-eight days after_

 

“A spinach salad,” Phil said dreamily. “With mandarin oranges and strawberries and julienne carrots. Maybe a little feta cheese and avocado.”

Chris wrinkled his nose. “Rabbit food.”

“Calm down, carnivore. What about you?”

“Hmm,” Chris hummed, thinking. “Pot roast. Heavy on the roast. Lots of potatoes and carrots and gravy.”

“Pearl onions?”

“God yes. Macaroni and cheese on the side. And an obscenely large drink.”

“Make it two.”

“Not like we haven’t earned it.”

This stretch of road they were on now was particularly desolate and disconcerting, so Chris and Phil were passing time by musing aloud on what they wanted as soon as they got to safety. It was anybody’s guess, really, as to whether it was helping or hurting; it passed the time and gave them something pleasant to meditate on, but it made them painfully aware of everything they were lacking right now in equal measure.

“You know what else I want?” Chris asked. “My medication.”

Phil toasted the hazy sun with his water bottle. “Real pillows and blankets.”

“And to never have to carry a backpack again for the rest of my life.”

“Or eat cold food straight from the can,” Phil added.

“Or hear Hannah Washington on the radio,” Chris said. “She’s a nice woman and a great reporter, but I’ll hear her voice in my nightmares for the rest of my life, to be honest.”

Phil nodded at the fair point. “Okay, tell me this, then,” he said. “Seeing as we’re clearly on the real estate market again...what do you want in terms of a new house?”

Chris was quiet for a moment, considering. “An in-ground pool,” he finally said, with a tiny smile on his face. Phil looked over and grinned; Chris felt himself flush a little and raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m from the desert, Phil; it’s a luxury, and I like to swim.”

“No, I get it, I get it,” Phil assured him. “Just...sounds really nice.”

“What about you?”

Phil smiled softly. “A garden,” he said. “Nothing elaborate. Just some...I dunno...peppers and peas and carrots and stuff. I had kind of a soft plan to start one in the fall at home. Thought it’d be nice to grow our own veggies.”

Something soft clenched around Chris’ heart. He leaned over and kissed Phil’s temple. “You big soft nerd,” he said affectionately.

“Pots and kettles,” Phil shot back with a smile.

“All right,” Chris said. “Pool and garden. Got it. Anything else?”

Phil put a sudden hand on Chris’ arm, nodding up the road at a gas station with a downed sign and caved-in roof. “We need more water.”

Chris frowned a little. “You think we can even get in there?”

“Worth a shot,” Phil said. “We don’t need the whole store intact, just the place they keep the water. We’re good on food for a few days.”

Chris shook his head doubtfully. The building looked really, really unstable. “If you say so.”

If Chris thought it had looked bad from a distance, it was nothing compared to the close-up. Fires had clearly ignited from the gasoline during the attack; they were no longer burning, but there was some persistent smoldering peppered over the concrete. On the inside, with the way the roof had collapsed, the entrance to the store was barricaded by debris piled up taller than Chris; there was no way of getting in through the doors. A few windows were busted through, but in small punctures, almost as though they’d been hit by projectiles instead of breaking as a result of blast wind. _Pieces of the gas pumps,_ it suddenly occurred to Chris.

“Careful around the gas,” Phil said gravely. “We’ve had enough explosions for one lifetime.”

On the side of the building, Chris found the window with the largest hole in it - still not large enough for them to fit through, but large enough that he could break the rest of the glass. Rearing back with his pack, he swung it forward into the pane; it promptly shattered inside the store. Phil climbed in first, and Chris followed him.

The volume of debris in the store was extraordinary, especially for a place that apparently hadn’t taken quite as huge a hit as the major cities, and they had to take the long way around to find the cooler where bottled water was kept - though the bottles themselves had long since left their display case and scattered over the floor. Phil and Chris picked up as many as they could hold, dusting them off, and packed them carefully away in their bags. It was a decent haul; if they were conservative with their usage, this much water could hold them at least four days.

When they turned to leave, Phil climbed out of the glassless window first, then held his hands out to help Chris. At the exact moment Chris turned to climb out, the several thousand pounds of debris behind him decided to settle. _Loudly._

Chris whirled around, half-in and half-out of the window, looking for danger. As he did, he felt a sharp bloom of pain on his right calf as it scraped against a shard of glass still attached to the window frame.

 _“Shit,”_ he exclaimed.

“Oh god,” Phil breathed from the outside. “Okay. C’mon, Chris. I’ve gotta see your leg.”

Carefully, Chris extricated himself from the window frame, grabbed Phil’s hands, and hopped down, yelling at the dart of pain that zinged up his injured leg when he landed. Phil helped steady him, then rolled up Chris’ now-ripped jeans and examined the cut.

“It’s not that long, but it’s pretty deep,” Phil said. “You need sutures but I don’t have any.”

Chris took a deep breath. Somewhere, in the distant back of his mind, he recognized that this was a very, very bad development. “It’s fine,” he said. “Is it still bleeding?”

Phil was applying gauze to it with heavy pressure. “It’s slowing down,” he said. “How bad does it hurt?”

“Well, it doesn’t tickle, but it’s not terrible,” Chris lied. “Once the bleeding slows down enough, just slap a band-aid on it and we can get going again.”

“Jesus, Christopher,” Phil muttered, before raising back to a normal speaking voice. “You need irrigation, sutures, a solid pressure dressing, and antibiotic treatment. This is not a band-aid fixable problem.”

“We only have a couple hours of daylight left,” Chris protested, “and I’m _really_ not interested in trying to sleep in this area.” He bit the inside of his lip hard against the pain. “Look, once we get to where we’re sleeping tonight, if it’s still looking bad, I’ll let you doctor me, okay? Until then, we really, _really_ have to go.”

Phil glared mildly up at Chris. “I don’t like this, Chris.”

“I know.”

Phil swapped out gauze. The bleeding was slowing to a trickle. Phil obediently reached into the first aid kid, grabbed a band-aid, smeared some antibiotic ointment on it, and placed it over the wound. “Somewhere in hell,” he commented idly, “my heinous old wound care attending just rolled over in her miserable grave at the fact that I slapped a damn _band-aid_ over something that deep.”

“Phil, I _promise,”_ Chris said softly. “I promise, when we get to a safe spot for the night, you can do whatever you think needs to be done. Just not now.” He paused, taking a shaky breath. “I just...I want to get us out of here, okay? I can’t take much more of this and neither can you. The sooner we get to Canada, the sooner this is over.”

Phil closed the first aid kit, packed it back up, and looked to Chris with a slightly grim expression. “I hate this.”

Chris nodded. “I know.”

Phil took a deep breath and looked north. “Let’s go.”

~

 _June 28_  
_Portland, Oregon  
_ _Twenty-nine days after_

 

They were somewhere south of Portland when Hannah Washington announced on the radio that, until further notice, the recently unearthed Secretary of the Interior was acting Commander in Chief for the country. As the Secretary of the Interior didn’t have a damn clue how to _be_ Commander in Chief, he had abdicated the responsibility, signing off on the continuation of martial law and then re-disappearing. This was, frankly, reassuring; the military seemed a far more stable organization at the moment than the government did.

Chris was limping down the road as Hannah Washington talked on the radio, and he was trying very hard not to let Phil notice it. In spite of everything Phil had told him, he truly hadn’t thought the scratch on his leg was that bad, but it really smarted now that they were up and moving around again, and it throbbed a little more when he tried to put pressure on his foot, as if someone was tightening a blood pressure cuff around his calf. Phil gave him covert glances all day that clued Chris in to the fact that he wasn’t fooling anybody. When Phil proposed that they sit to eat lunch, Chris readily agreed; before he got scraped up the other day, he’d never have considered wasting a moment or a mile of walking by sitting down unnecessarily.

“You gonna let me properly bandage that leg now?” Phil asked faux-neutrally, taking a bite of tinned vegetable soup.

Chris just grumbled a little and massaged the leg in question. “Tonight,” he acquiesced. “When we stop.”

“Yeah, I’m not falling for that again,” Phil said, flipping the switches on the first aid kit and rolling up Chris’ pant leg for him.

Chris looked around uneasily as Phil did his work. He had been to Oregon many times before and come to think of it as a sort of sacred haven. As they walked through what used to be a suburb of Portland, it painfully occurred to him that this place, of all the cities and towns they’d walked through so far, had undergone the most radical, terrible change. Certainly, everywhere on the west coast was done for; buildings were obliterated, trees were down, Sausalito was probably still on fire - but there was something particularly upsetting about the destruction in Portland. The sky-high alders and pines he’d used to think were so beautiful now lay fractured and splintered, bowing over him and Phil as they made their way down the highway. It made Chris feel oddly panicky, almost like he was suffocating, like this place for which he’d grown such affection had suddenly and inexplicably gone to rot and he couldn’t escape its clutches. It paralyzed him and made him want to run at the same time.

“All right,” Phil said. “That’s about as done as it’s gonna get. You ready to go?”

Chris nodded, then grabbed Phil’s proffered hand to stand. Unconsciously, he moved a little closer to Phil, reluctant to let go. “You okay?” Phil asked gently.

Chris swallowed a mouthful of nothing. His heart was suddenly pounding. “Anxiety.”

Phil put a gentle hand on his cheek. “Deep breaths,” he said softly. “I’m here. We’re safe right now, and we only have to handle right now.”

Chris leaned in, putting his forehead down on Phil’s shoulder, and watched the steady rise and fall of Phil’s chest through his t-shirt. Phil held one of Chris’ hands over his heart, letting him feel it beating steadily. The rhythms were comforting, and he slowly started to mimic them.

“There you go,” Phil murmured, one palm warm and steady on the back of Chris’ neck.

“Sorry,” Chris said in a raw voice when his throat felt normal again. “It’s just...it feels creepy here. Ominous. I can’t explain why.”

“Well, it probably won’t be less creepy once we get to Portland proper,” Phil said honestly, “but there’ll be fewer trees casting shadows. Probably won’t feel so...I dunno, _close.”_

Chris pursed his lips and nodded. Phil wordlessly handed him a tube of lip balm and a water bottle from his pack, and Chris gratefully took them both.

“Shall we go?” Phil asked, extending his hand.

Chris nodded and took his hand. They kept walking.

They reached Portland sometime after nightfall. It was a ghost town. Compared to most big cities they’d gone through, more buildings were standing, if only in a technical sense; they were all in one state of destruction or another, but many were still upright. As Chris and Phil made their way north through the city, and as exhaustion and a desperate need to get off their feet set in, they started looking for their usual nighttime accommodations.

After numerous dashed hopes, Phil finally spotted a large building on the opposite side of the street. The building itself apparently used to be three stories tall, but the top two floors were completely blown apart now. Try though they did, neither Chris nor Phil could manage to break the glass to get inside on the first floor, but there _was_ a considerable overhang onto the sidewalk under which they could shelter for the night. It’d be safe - as safe as things were these days - so long as they slept in shifts.

Phil opened his pack and shook out the mylar blanket. Chris unshouldered his pack and handed it over to Phil. “Hang on to this, will you? I need to go find a bathroom spot.”

“Don’t go too far,” Phil said absently, taking Chris’ pack. He sat cross-legged on the blanket and pulled out his first-aid kit, evaluating what he had left.

True to his word, Chris didn’t go far, merely rounding a corner and finding a grassy spot. He unzipped, relieved himself, re-zipped, and made to go back to Phil - when he found himself clutched painfully tight from behind, unable to move. Something thin and sharp was pressed against his neck, and foul breath was coming over his shoulder in waves.

Chris let out an involuntary yell of shock.

“Not another sound,” a voice hissed behind him. The sharp thing at his neck pressed harder. Chris felt prickles of terror-fueled adrenaline cascade over his skin.

“Empty your pockets,” the voice ordered. “Toss everything on the ground.” Chris did as he was told. Their map, the lighter he’d taken off the body in Willows, a granola bar, and a near-empty tube of lip balm landed on the sidewalk.

“Now I _know_ you’re not thinking you’re gonna survive on that,” the voice said furiously. “Where’s the rest of your stuff?”

 _If I tell him, he’ll kill Phil too._ “I don’t have other stuff.”

“Tell me, or I’ll slit your throat right now and find it on my own.”

Chris swallowed harshly, closing his eyes, trying to telepathically transmit to Phil that he loved him before his inevitable death - and then heard the telltale _click_ of a gun cocking behind him.

The man whirled around, bringing Chris with him. Phil’s face was blank fury, and he had the gun pointed straight at the man holding a knife to Chris’ throat.

“Ahh,” the knife-man said, faux-congenially. “Maybe _you_ can show me where your stuff is.”

“Maybe _you_ can back the fuck away from my husband,” Phil answered. His voice was rock steady and his hands were not wavering.

“Maybe you can watch him die in front of you,” the man hissed.

The next few things all happened very fast.

The man with the knife tightened his grip on Chris and pressed hard enough on the skin of his throat to draw blood.

Chris looked straight at Phil and mouthed _I love you._

Phil fired a single shot into the head of the man with the knife.

The knife hit the grass, and shortly thereafter, the man did too.

For a few seconds, neither Chris nor Phil moved. Then Chris slowly turned; the knife-man was still and unblinking, with an obviously unsurvivable gunshot wound to the head. Chris reached up and felt his own neck; there was a little bleeding on the left side, where the slitting had started, but it was only superficial.

He turned. _“Phil.”_

The gun dropped into the grass. Phil looked down at his hands, trembling violently all over, eyes huge and confused.

Chris rushed to Phil’s side. “Phil. Sweetheart.”

Phil briefly tore his eyes away from his hands, finally looking at Chris. His eyes were full of unshed tears. “I...I…” Phil looked behind Chris to the body on the ground, his legs slightly going out from under him.

Chris grabbed Phil’s arms to steady him. “Baby, look at me.”

Phil shook his head vigorously, his eyes panicked and blown. “I did something terrible,” he said, in the smallest voice Chris had ever heard him use.

“You just saved my life,” Chris said emphatically, cupping Phil’s face, forcing him to make eye contact. _“You just saved my life.”_ The shock waves started to roll over Chris now, too, forcing him into the same mildly hysterical weeping that was now wracking Phil’s body. But while Chris was looking at Phil, his love, his savior, the reason he wasn’t bleeding out on the ground right now, Phil was looking at his own hands, a healer’s hands, _and I shall do no harm_ hands, the reason _someone else_ was bleeding out on the ground right now.

“I did something terrible,” Phil repeated weakly.

“He was gonna kill me,” Chris panted out. “He was about to kill me, Phil, but you _saved me._ You did exactly what you had to do. You did exactly what I would have done if it was you. You _saved my life.”_ Phil looked primed to pass out; Chris wrapped one of his arms around Phil’s waist and used the other to secure Phil’s arm around his neck. As quickly as he could manage, he walked them both away from the sight of the body on the grass, back to their spot on the sidewalk, back to the mylar blanket, where Phil could let go and collapse to the ground in hysteria. As soon as his knees hit the pavement, Phil vomited onto the concrete, Chris holding his overlong hair out of his face and rubbing his back.

“I know, baby,” Chris kept murmuring. “I know.”

When Phil’s body stopped retching, hyperventilation took over. Not knowing what else to do, Chris reached out, grabbed Phil’s hand, and put it over his, Chris’, heart, a parody of what Phil had himself done earlier. “Listen to me. _Feel this._ This is because of you,” Chris said softly as Phil gasped for breath between sobs. Chris tilted Phil’s face up, trying to make eye contact with him. “My heart is beating right now because of you. You are the only reason I’m still alive, Phil.”

Phil looked at him with red-rimmed eyes, grabbing Chris’ wrist with both hands. “I did something terrible,” he said again.

Chris rocked him and kissed his temple. “You saved my life.”

Chris honestly couldn’t tell if it took minutes or hours for Phil’s hysteria to subside to whimpering to ebb away entirely into shocked numbness. But in what he assumed was the middle of the night, after neither of them had slept so much as a wink, Phil spoke.

“Chris?”

“Yeah?”

“I need us to keep walking right now.” Phil was still trembling faintly all over, as if his heartbeat was so ferocious that every beat was causing him to jolt a little bit. “I...I’ve gotta get out of here. I need to be somewhere else. Right now.” Phil looked at Chris, the horror and shock and shame all naked in his eyes. _“Right now,_ Chris.”

Chris looked to Phil’s pale, pained face, and nodded. “Okay,” he murmured. “Let’s keep walking.”

So they packed up, turned on their flashlights, and walked away.

“I did something terrible,” Phil whispered as the sun rose.

Chris squeezed Phil’s hand tightly. “You saved my life,” he answered.

~

 _July 1_  
_Olympia, Washington  
_ _Thirty-two days after_

 

Phil found himself kissed awake that morning, and he came to feeling...unusually refreshed. Were it not for the kiss, the sated feeling would have been associated with the dread that usually accompanies oversleeping one’s alarm. When his eyes fluttered open, Chris was smiling at him.

“Happy birthday, love,” he said, voice gravelly.

 _It’s my birthday,_ Phil acknowledged distantly after running a little bit of mental math. “Thank you,” he said, wiping sleep from his eyes, surveying their surroundings. They’d holed up last night in what Phil thought used to be a public library. He surveyed Chris with a critical eye. “How long did I sleep?”

Chris looked sheepish. _Busted_. “About five hours.”

_“Chris!”_

“It’s your _birthday,”_ Chris protested. “I can’t buy you dinner, I can’t give you that cast-iron cookware set you had your eye on, and I can’t have sex with you; the only gift I can give you is a little extra sleep. So _let me._ Please?”

Phil softened considerably, but did not let it go. “Did you get sleep too?” he asked.

“I got plenty of sleep,” Chris said. It was a bold-faced lie - neither of them had gotten plenty of sleep since the attack, or plenty of anything else, for that matter - but Phil let it go. There would be no winning that fight, anyway. Chris handed him a water bottle and the remains of a tin of green beans that he’d clearly already been picking at. “We’re gonna have to find some place today to restock water,” he said, rifling through his pack. “We’re fine on food, but for water, we’ve got a day, maybe.”

Phil took a swig of water, swished his mouth out, then reluctantly swallowed it, wishing they had some to spare so that he could spit it out. “We can probably find a convenience store.”

“Assuming it’s not picked clean,” Chris said. “It’s pretty metropolitan here. Probably more people who’ve already come through. I don’t know exactly where we are, but we might be able to track down an honest-to-god grocery store somewhere around here.”

Phil stretched and rolled his ankles. “That’d be nice.”

Chris folded the mylar blanket and stashed it at the bottom of his pack, then zipped the whole mess up. “You ready?”

Phil grabbed his own pack, carefully wedging the half-full can of green beans into a side compartment, and nodded.

They managed to loot a few protein bars from one convenience store and some pretzels from another in the first few hours of their day, but no fresh water, which was worrisome. At around midday, Chris - who’d been rather quiet all day - stopped their progress and nodded to their left. A few streets back from the highway - or what used to be the highway - was what looked like a supermarket.

Chris and Phil carefully made their way over to it, pried open the slightly-open automatic doors, and went inside. Chris almost immediately had to step back out again and retch. Clearly, the meat and fish section of the store had undergone some rot - Phil hoped human remains inside hadn’t too, but strongly suspected that hope was in vain - and the stench was borderline intolerable.

“Stay out here,” Phil directed Chris. “I’ll get what we need.”

Chris shook his head, still gagging but trying to catch his breath and compose himself. “No,” he managed. “We…we don’t split up. Not again.”

“Honey…”

“Phil, I mean it,” Chris said stubbornly, standing and taking a couple of unsteady breaths. “Let’s...let’s just do this. Quickly. Please.”

Phil looked at Chris. He was sweating and looked pale. _Dehydration. Please just be dehydration and not illness._

“Hold your breath,” Phil cautioned before they headed back in at a run.

They grabbed as many bottles of water as their two packs would hold as fast as they could. Neither of them even bothered zipping up their packs; they just shoved their loot in and ran for the storefront again, gasping for air when they exited.

 _“Shit,”_ Chris finally managed, wincing, placing a hand on his calf. He tried to move it before Phil would see, but he wasn’t nearly quick enough, and Phil’s eyes zeroed in on it.

“Does your leg hurt?”

Chris shook his head unconvincingly. “It’s just a little achy ‘cause it’s healing. It’s fine.”

Phil reached his hand out and touched Chris’ forehead. He genuinely couldn’t tell if Chris felt feverish or not. “No, it is _not_ fine. If that thing gets infected - ”

Chris grabbed Phil’s hand, smiled wearily, and kissed it. “I’m fine, _Doctor.”_

Phil did not believe him.

They ate protein bars on the road for lunch and split a can of baked beans for dinner. There was no new information on the radio; Phil swapped in fresh batteries around sunset, but all the news really had to discuss was the rising death toll and the scramble to figure out how to decon an entire coast for clean-up and recovery purposes. When they finally decided to break for the night, they sheltered in the remains of a Catholic church. It was eerie, especially with the stained glass blown out, but the church had a few intact pews, which would keep them off the floor for the night - a nice bonus.

“All right,” Phil demanded once Chris sat down. “Let me see your leg.”

Chris sighed, then rolled up his pants leg. The simple fact that he hadn’t even made a crack about _at least buy me dinner first_ was indication enough for Phil that his husband was in bad shape. And indeed he was; the craggy red mark stood out brightly on a backdrop of reddened, swollen skin. Phil touched the skin gently; it had a fever in it. “It’s infected, honey.”

Chris sighed again. “Well, that fucking figures.”

Phil reached into the first aid kit and fished out more packets of antibiotic ointment, plus the roll of gauze, and said a small prayer to whatever deity might be in earshot - they were in a church, after all - that it was enough. “This’ll hurt like a bitch,” he warned. “I’m sorry.”

Chris hissed as Phil massaged the antibiotic ointment directly onto his calf, trying to apply as thick a layer as possible right over the wound.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Phil babbled, working as quickly as he dared, then wrapping the entire thing in gauze. He didn’t have an adequate way to secure the wrap other than to knot it, which wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. He finished the job, leaned up, and kissed Chris. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

Chris smiled through his grimace. “It’s okay,” he said. “You’re such a good doctor.”

Phil sat next to him on the pew, swallowing back the bile that rose in his throat with the late conflict between his actions and his Hippocratic Oath. “I’d be a better one if I had the right equipment,” he muttered. “And the right drugs. And the right sterility.”

“But you’re trying,” Chris said gently. “That matters, Phil.”

 _Not if I can’t fix this, it doesn’t,_ Phil thought, but didn’t say anything. He stood to shake out the mylar blanket and winced as his feet screamed in agony.

“Your feet hurt?” Chris asked unnecessarily.

Phil nodded, sinking heavily next to Chris on the pew. “Don’t yours?”

“Well, yes,” Chris admitted, “but it’s not my birthday.” Somehow - and rather quickly - Phil found himself on his back, with his shoes off and his feet in Chris’ lap, Chris’ thumbs working over the broken and pained balls of Phil’s feet. Phil groaned happily.

“Careful,” Chris chided teasingly. “You just moaned in borderline-orgasmic delight in a Catholic church while your gay lover massaged your feet.”

“Good thing I’m agnostic,” Phil groaned, letting Chris’ thumbs work his feet over, “or that’d be, like, the _least_ of what I’d be going to hell for.” He swallowed hard; there came that bile again.

Chris gave Phil a soft, fond, understanding look. It was quiet between them for a moment.

“I got you that cast-iron set, you know,” Chris said softly.

Phil looked up at him. Chris was smiling, but his eyes were soft and sad.

“Just thought you’d want to know. I hid it in my office at school, under my desk. If things were normal, you’d be opening that right now.” Chris looked down at his hands on Phil’s feet as he kept massaging and talking. “I was gonna take you to Luna Blu for dinner so you could have that gnocchi you love. And then I’d take you home and we’d have dessert - I recruited Len to make you a cheesecake in, like, March - so that’d be waiting for you at home. Then you’d open your present. I knew you’d know right away what it was because it was so heavy in the box, but I still wanted to see your face.” His smile turned a little bit sly. “Then I’d take you to bed, and I’d let you open a different kind of present.”

Phil smiled, playing along. “What kind of present might that be, Doctor Pike?”

Chris shot Phil a coy glance. “One we can’t talk about in church, Doctor Boyce.”

Phil laughed a little laugh, then sat up, squeezing Chris’ hands. Chris made eye contact; he looked exhausted and weary, and Phil couldn’t imagine he looked any better.

“I’m sorry your birthday sucks, sweetheart,” Chris mumbled, pressing his forehead to Phil’s.

Phil shook his head. “Don’t be sorry, Chris,” he said softly. “We’re together and we’re alive. Couldn’t ask for anything better this year.”

~

 _July 4_  
_Seattle, Washington  
_ _Thirty-five days after_

 

When Phil woke up on the morning of the Fourth of July, under a long desk in what was probably once somebody’s office, it was to the sound of Chris moaning weakly. His eyes fluttered open and he looked around, groggy, before his eyes finally landed on his husband - who was pale, dazed, and pouring so much sweat that his hair was curling into ringlets.

_Shit._

Phil rolled over to face Chris, putting the back of his hand to Chris’ forehead. He was on _fire_.

“Chris?” Phil said softly. “Chris? Love?”

Chris moaned again, then grimaced. His eyes opened only briefly, settling on Phil, before they closed again, pained.

“Think ‘m dyin’, baby,” Chris managed to mumble.

Phil’s gut clenched and his heart started to hammer. “Oh no you fucking _don’t,”_ he hissed, crawling down and examining Chris’ leg wound. It was violently red, hot to the touch, oozing, and his entire calf had swollen past what the length of gauze wrapped around it could contain. That, plus fever, plus disorientation...

_Systemic infection._

Phil reached for his pack, tugging out the first aid kit. He knew, somewhere in his rational mind, that he had nothing in there that could help right now - he’d used the only antibiotics they’d had for the kidney infection he’d gotten weeks ago, and his sterile gauze pads had all been used over the past week on Chris’ leg - but he looked anyway. He had to have something for Chris. _Anything._

But he found nothing.

He had no thermometer or blood pressure cuff, but he pressed his fingertips to Chris’ wrist. The pulse he felt was far too fast and thready.

Bravely resisting the urge to scream in frustration, Phil shoved things back in his pack, looked out the (long since broken) window of the office they’d slept in last night, and tried to assess where he was and what his options were. If things were normal, if he had the right equipment and support staff and drugs, he’d want Chris to get IV fluids and antibiotics, frequent vital sign assessment, pain management, and a urinary cath; he’d want to irrigate the wound and dress it properly with sterile dressing.

Chris moaned again. Phil turned back to see him grimace, the beads of sweat shiny on his brow.

Phil _needed_ medical supplies. He had to go try to find some, or Chris wasn’t going to make it. And Chris not making it was not a survivable outcome.

“Chrissy?” Phil said softly, kneeling next to his husband and grabbing his hand. “Open your eyes for me, love.”

Chris’ eyes fluttered open, strangely unfixed. His pupils were blown - another bad sign.

“I need to go find some help.”

Chris blinked, shaking his head back and forth, disoriented. “Go...go with you...help me up…”

Gently, Phil held Chris’ shoulders to the floor, covering him with their mylar blanket. “No, honey,” he insisted. “No. I need to go by myself. You need to stay here.”

Chris shook his head again. “We...don’t...split up.”

Phil leaned down and kissed Chris’ forehead. “You can’t walk right now, love,” he said gently. “You’re too sick. I need to go get things to try to make you better.”

Chris was looking at Phil now, and Phil honestly couldn’t tell if anything he was saying was actually getting through the fever-fog in Chris’ mind. “You’ll come back?”

Phil laced his fingers with Chris’. “I’ll come back. I absolutely _promise_ , I’ll come back.”

Chris blinked, let out a few tiny, disjointed sighs, then seemed to fall back asleep.

Phil emptied his backpack of everything, leaving it all in a tight pile next to Chris’ pack, hoping to fit everything he would need into the one bag. He took a swig of water, left a gentle kiss on Chris’ fiery-hot cheek, and then, fighting every impulse in him that told him to stay put, climbed out the window.

A hospital would’ve been his first choice to loot, obviously, but he saw no evidence that any hospitals were nearby. If he could find a pharmacy, it might have some of what he needed - it would probably have saline and gauze and oral antibiotics and painkillers, assuming the place hadn’t already been picked clean by other survivors - but not everything. He probably couldn’t find what he needed to start an IV or place a cath at a pharmacy, and Chris was likely too far gone for oral meds anyway. He kept walking, eyes swiping from one side of the street to the other, looking for something, anything…

Phil cocked his head. _Huh._

A badly damaged sign on the opposite side of the road caught his eye. _Choice Reproductive Services of Greater Seattle._

Phil stood, looking at the sign, running through his mental list. An abortion clinic would have what he needed. They’d have fluids, antibiotics, pain meds, sterile gauze, IV-starting materials, alcohol, blood pressure cuffs, thermometers, probably even a cath set. _Assuming, of course, no one else has gotten there first._

Running across the road, Phil saw that the windows of the clinic were blown out, and the roof very heavily damaged. He climbed in one of the windows, finding himself in what he could only assume was some kind of recovery room, and oriented himself. _Laundry room...front desk...someone’s office...exam room...OR...OR...nurses’ station - yes, nurses’ station._

Someone had definitely been here, Phil observed; some of the cabinet doors had been blown off, but a few were simply left open with stock obviously taken. He came across four bags of saline, a bottle of betadine, gloves, a few IV catheters (no cath kit, _dammit,_ but he could manage without it), and what he would need in order to secure an IV and wrap Chris’ leg wound. In the lab adjacent to the nurse’s station, he found a thermometer, some alcohol pads, and an electronic blood pressure cuff that was miraculously still working and took the same size of batteries their flashlights and radio did. This was a fucking _gold mine._

All he needed were meds.

Instinct told him that the meds he needed were locked up behind a closed door right behind the nurses’ station, and he certainly wasn’t going to waste time trying to find the keys. Phil looked around, trying to find some object that could break a hole in the door, something large enough to punch an opening big enough for him to reach in and hit the lock from the inside, something solid and heavy, but also mobile...something like…

He wandered into one of the operating rooms. An ultrasound machine lay sadly on its side.

_Like that._

Phil maneuvered the machine right side up again, then wheeled it out to right in front of the closet he was trying to get into. He took a deep breath, spit on both his hands for grip, and rammed the door. All he got was a big banging sound. Pulling back, he tried again. Nothing.

Again. Again. Again.

Nothing.

Phil adjusted the angle of the machine, so that a corner was hitting the door instead of the flat front, and rammed into the door with all his strength. This time, the door dented.

_Bingo._

He shoved again, watching the wood splinter. He shoved again and kept pressure there, hearing the wood resist, strained notes of frustration escaping from his throat. _Crack, you bastard, crack._

Suddenly, it cracked.

Phil reached for the spot, pushing and tugging at the wood, trying to widen the hole as much as he could. He reached his hand in, found the doorknob, and flipped the lock, and...behold.

Several glass vials had fallen to the floor and broken during the attack, but many drugs were in intact bottles, just knocked over. Phil spotted some lidocaine from where he was, plus three different antibiotics. None were as broad-spectrum as he would’ve liked, and two of them were oral, but he would gleefully take what he could get at this point. The narcotic drugs were, Phil presumed, in the double-locked metal safe on the floor, which he had absolutely no way of getting into; however, some toradol was sitting on the shelf, as were some generic over-the-counter painkillers. Phil swept them all into his now-bulging bag, along with a selection of needles and syringes, and then hightailed it out of there.

He took his route back to the office park at a run, because clouds were beginning to gather and he heard a rumble of thunder in the distance. It hadn’t yet rained on their entire journey, but any rain that fell was still likely to carry whatever radioactive junk the nukes had propelled into the atmosphere, so getting rained on was bad news. As soon as he climbed back in through the broken window of the office Chris was in, Phil could hear the pitter-patter of rain hitting pavement outside.

Working his way back to the desk he’d left Chris under, Phil brought out his backpack, unzipping the very top. He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding when his eyes fell on Chris’ preternaturally still frame, curled in a ball under the mylar blanket.

“Chris?” Phil said softly, placing a gentle hand on his cheek. “Chrissy?”

Chris’ eyes sprang open; they were red-rimmed, and he looked far worse than he had when Phil left. “You...left me?” he said, puzzled.

“Only for a little bit,” Phil assured. “But I came back. And now I can try to make you feel better.”

Chris just blinked at him blearily. Phil dumped out his pack, trying to prioritize. He started by taking Chris’ vital signs - his blood pressure was tanking, heart rate still too fast, and fever terrifyingly high - and set his things out to start an IV. Chris typically had excellent veins, but dehydration had made them shitty; Phil got lucky with a spot in his left hand and taped it down solidly, looking around for a high enough spot in the room on which he could hang this bag of fluids. He finally settled on a drawer handle of the desk they were hiding under and set it to flow wide open. It wasn’t ideal, but neither was anything else.

“I need to give you a couple of shots now, Chris,” Phil said softly, drawing meds up. “One’s for pain, and one’s for infection.”

Just as when Phil had placed his IV, Chris didn’t even flinch at the toradol shot, but the ceftriaxone shot made him wince and give a high-pitched whine.

“I’m sorry, love, I’m so sorry, I know.” The ceftriaxone shot was a risk - Chris was allergic to penicillin, and there was a slim chance of a cross-reaction - but Chris was also in bad enough shape that Phil had no choice but to risk it. Phil put a band-aid on the puncture site, then leaned back against one of the desk legs. He wanted to give the toradol a moment to do its job before the next part. Chris’ whimpers of discomfort died out, and he flopped his head to the side, dazed, looking at Phil. Phil tried to smile at Chris, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Hi, handsome.”

“Mmm,” Chris hummed, giving a tiny squeeze back.

“Feel shitty?”

“Mmm.”

Phil swallowed. “I’m sorry, Chrissy.” He leaned in and kissed Chris’ hand. “But I’m gonna try to fix that.” He ran a hand through Chris’ hair, trying to draw his attention and his gaze. “Hey. Look at me.” Chris’ eyes blearily opened back up. “This next part...this is gonna suck. I’m gonna numb the skin around your cut so I can clean it and bandage it. The numbing is gonna hurt.” Chris didn’t even blink. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to be as quick as I can. Promise.”

Chris took a couple of labored breaths before he managed to eke out, “Trust you.”

Phil drew up a few syringes full of lidocaine, exposed the awful, weeping leg, and looked up to Chris’ face. “I need you to stay really, really still for me,” he said softly. He took a deep, shuddering breath, then gave the first injection of anesthetic.

Chris’ pitiful noise of discomfort broke Phil’s heart.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Phil said in a gentle voice, giving a second injection, then a third. “I’m so, so sorry. I know.”

Chris whimpered, balling one of his hands up into a fist, disrupting his IV tubing.

“Stay still for me, Chrissy,” Phil whispered. “I’m almost done. Almost done.”

Chris’ whimpers had just barely ratcheted up to the level of a pained scream when Phil finally exhaled, “I’m done.” He slumped against the desk, catching his breath a little. “I’m done, Chris. It’s okay.”

Chris slowly settled back down. Phil used one of the clean needles to puncture a bag of saline, then poured the saline all over Chris’ leg, followed by betadine. This was hardly the highest-quality frontier medicine, but if the betadine could get in there and kill off bacteria at the source, then that, plus the antibiotics in oral, injected, and topical form, _might_ be enough. Chris shivered as the cool fluids rushed over his superheated skin, but had no further reaction to anything Phil was doing.

Phil reapplied the triple antibiotic ointment, bandaged Chris’ leg with sterile gauze pads, and wrapped it in more of the wrap gauze. “Do you think you can swallow some pills?” he asked. Chris made a noncommittal humming sound, and Phil shook a metronidazole and a doxycycline pill into his hand, supported Chris’ head as he tilted it upward, and helped him get the pills and a splash of water down. Chris sputtered in distaste, but obediently swallowed anyway.

“All right, love,” Phil said, slumping down next to Chris, wrapping an arm around his shoulders from the top. “We’re done for now.”

Chris shivered again. Phil tugged the mylar blanket up farther on him and held him a little closer. Chris slept, but Phil stayed wide awake, watching him, hoping against hope that that was enough.

They repeated the process the following day. And the day after that. Chris’ vitals improved slightly, but beyond that, there was little notable improvement - and that was probably from the fluid replacement, anyway. He might’ve been marginally more lucid, but it was hard to tell.

Late on the fourth day, Phil woke up from a brief catnap to see Chris’ eyes open and looking right at him. Chris blinked heavily a few times, but maintained eye contact. Phil reached out and touched his forehead; it was cool and dry.

“Chris?” Phil asked lowly.

Chris smiled very weakly. “Hey, baby.”

Phil pushed himself up, grabbing the thermometer and blood pressure cuff. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Sleepy,” Chris answered groggily. “Kinda weak.”

“Under the tongue,” Phil said, holding out the thermometer. Chris did as he was told. Phil waited for an intolerable minute, then looked.

Dropping temperature. Rising BP. Normal pulse.

_He’s stabilizing._

Phil clapped a hand over his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut.

“‘m I gonna be okay?” Chris asked.

Phil looked at him, laughed, and hugged the thermometer to his chest. “Holy shit, you are.” He leaned down, kissed Chris’ forehead, and laughed again. “It worked. Oh my god, it actually _worked_. You’re gonna be okay.”

Chris’ smile grew. “You saved me again,” he murmured.

Phil took a couple of deep breaths, then hugged Chris as hard as he dared. “I was so scared,” he said tightly into Chris’ shoulder. “I thought I would lose you. I was so, so scared.”

Chris ran a hand through Phil’s hair, smiling softly. “Told you you were a good doctor.”

~

 _July 11_  
_The outskirts of Bellingham, Washington  
_ _Forty-two days after_

 

When Chris glanced to his left, he saw three Phils. That couldn’t have been a good sign.

“We’re pretty dehydrated, aren’t we?” he managed to say.

Phil just nodded, then took a swig of water, handing it over to Chris. “How many bottles do you have left?”

“Two. You?”

“That’s my last one.”

Chris drained it, then sighed. His leg ached horribly, but he certainly wasn’t about to tell Phil that after Phil had gone through hell to ensure he didn’t die of sepsis.

“We’ve gotta find a place to refuel,” Chris muttered, looking around fruitlessly. It was pretty desolate here.

Chris heard Phil swallow next to him. “I thought about getting some kit or something so we could purify water,” he said. “You know...before. But I didn’t have time. I’m sorry.”

Chris laced his fingers with Phil’s. “The shelter was your idea,” he said quietly. “If you hadn’t suggested it, we’d be dead. You did plenty, Phil. I should’ve helped more.”

Phil smiled a little, kicking a pebble in their path. “You thought it was kind of stupid, didn’t you?”

Chris squeezed Phil’s hand. “I wouldn’t say that, but I definitely didn’t think it’d actually get used,” he admitted. “Did I make you feel bad about it?”

“No,” Phil was quick to say. “I just...I could tell I was taking it more seriously.”

Well, _that_ was shameful. “I’m sorry,” Chris murmured.

They were quiet for a few minutes. Chris asked for some lip balm from Phil’s pack, which Phil gave him. Phil checked in on the radio - no news, except that no new survivors had registered at the Vancouver camp in the past two days and they were assuming no further survivors would come. (Phil and Chris just snickered darkly.) They happened across some shop on the side of the highway - what it was before the attack, they honestly couldn’t identify at this point - and pilfered a little more water.

They walked. And they walked. And they walked.

“We might get to the border tomorrow,” Phil opined, with as close to cheer as Chris ever heard in his voice anymore.

“I’m not one to talk shit about the country when it’s undeserved,” Chris groused, “but in light of recent events, it’ll be damn good to be on the other side of the border.”

When Phil did not respond as expected, Chris turned his way, only to see him staring slack-jawed and wide-eyed into the distance. Chris followed his gaze, having to squint a little.

It was...a figure. Moving toward them. Not discernibly human.

Phil made to move toward the figure, but Chris took hold of him by the wrist. “Might be dangerous,” he hissed.

Phil looked briefly to Chris, then back to the figure, swallowing harshly. They continued to watch, stock still, only able to hear the breath of the other, when suddenly the figure fell to its knees in the road.

“Chris, I have to help her,” Phil gasped, shaking off Chris’ hand and taking off at a jog.

 _Her?_ Chris thought to himself. He couldn’t identify a species, let alone a sex.

“Phil - Phil, don’t - ”

But Phil was already there. Chris could hear his soothing, kind doctor’s voice, talking to her in low tones as he eased her onto her back on the pavement. Chris approached them far more cautiously. Phil had been right; it was a woman - a grey, dead-eyed woman, her age and race indeterminate. Chris gave her a careful once-over; she had papery skin, was far too thin, and had a large bloodstain on her midsection, which was - _oh, god, no_ \- slightly swollen.

Phil was running gentle hands over her head and neck, palpating gently, looking the woman in the eye and never touching her without warning her first. From somewhere alien, Chris found his voice. “Phil, look at her belly; is she…?”

“No,” Phil answered. “She was. Very, very recently. But she’s not anymore.”

There was no evidence of a baby anywhere near her, which meant nothing good. Chris felt very much like throwing up now. “What...what can you…”

Phil stilled, holding the grey woman’s hands over her belly, then turned to look up at Chris and shook his head. “Nothing,” he whispered brokenly.

Chris choked on his breath at the agony in Phil’s voice. Phil turned back to the woman on the ground - _his patient,_ now - and kept holding her hand. Chris crouched next to Phil and watched as her breathing got shallower and more agonal.

“It’s okay,” Phil was saying to her, in the gentlest voice Chris had ever heard him use - the same verbal anesthetic Chris imagined he used to ease the pain of cancer diagnoses and miscarriages and amnios with unexpected results, the same voice Chris had heard him use only once before, on a deeply traumatized Jim, to soothe him to sleep on his first night on Chris’ couch. “It’s okay. I know you’re hurting right now, but you won’t be for much longer.” Phil swallowed audibly, looking at the woman’s unfixed eyes. “You’re almost there. You’re almost free. It’s okay; you’re not alone. We’re right here, and you’re not alone.” Phil reached a hand up, stroking the woman’s hair out of her face - it was stringy, and its original color was no longer apparent. “It’s okay to let go,” he whispered. “It’s okay to go see your baby now.”

Chris’ breath caught in his throat as the woman’s blank, unseeing eyes suddenly, weakly tilted and fixed themselves on Phil’s. Phil just kept stroking her hair.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “We won’t leave you. You can let go.”

The woman kept looking at Phil, and as Chris watched silently behind him, all the muscles in her face went slack and limp. Phil slipped his fingers back from holding her hand, feeling for her wrist. Chris couldn’t see Phil’s face, but he could connect the dots.

Phil dropped her hand and turned in profile to Chris. His face was full of undefined emotions that steadily built up in his expression before Phil _broke_ , finally releasing all of the fury and pain and devastation that had been contained for too long in a marrow-deep scream, the kind that strips the paint from the walls of the spirit and folds itself into the fabric of the landscape. Chris felt the lance of that pain piercing his heart as Phil finally uncorked the bottle and let it go.

Unable to do anything else, Chris grabbed him from behind in a tight embrace, letting Phil sob furiously for the grey woman with the lost child.

 _“She - didn’t - deserve this!”_ Phil wailed. _“None - of us - deserve this!”_

Chris rocked him, trying to soothe him as he panted out his agony, six weeks worth of grief and rage that Phil had suffocated in order to try to survive spilling out all at once.

“Chrissy, I can’t _do_ this anymore,” Phil wept nonsensically. “I can’t _do_ this. I wanna go _home.”_

“I know, baby,” Chris tried to soothe, sniffling harshly. “I know you do. I do too.”

Phil turned to face Chris now; his face was furiously red, with tiny petechiae dotting his cheeks. His eyes were glossy, but there were no tear tracks on his face. It took Chris a second to realize that they were too dehydrated to cry now. “She didn’t deserve to die,” Phil said plaintively.

“No,” Chris agreed, petting the side of Phil’s head. “She didn’t.”

There was a long, long pause, while Phil tried to control his breathing enough to talk. Then, he said, “We should bury her.”

Chris, remembering what Phil had said to him twice now about the expenditure of unnecessary calories, questioned it. “Are you sure?”

Phil looked back at the woman. “We should bury her.”

So they did. It was a shallow grave, because it had to be; they could only dig with their hands. She was sickeningly lightweight, Chris observed, as they lifted her to set her into the hole they’d made. Chris watched as Phil stroked her hair out of her face before covering her with earth.

Chris looked around; about ten feet away, there was a decent-sized rock that could serve as a headstone. Phil, who clearly needed a minute, barely looked up as Chris told him his intentions. Rolling the rock back over, he noted Phil’s absence by the grave; when he looked up, he saw Phil closer to the highway, looking at various smaller rocks, seizing one off the ground and running back toward Chris. Before Chris could ask what he was doing, Phil knelt by the makeshift headstone and began scraping the two rocks together.

 _It’s a chalk rock,_ Chris’ mind suddenly filled in.

Phil finished writing, stood, and joined Chris at the foot of the grave, looking at the headstone.

 _A mother,_ Phil had written.

Chris turned to Phil and enveloped him in his arms. “Listen to me,” he said softly. “You did your duty, sweetheart. All you could do was give her a good death, and you did.” Chris separated from Phil just enough to see his face. “You did right by her, Phil, the only way you could.”

Phil just nodded morosely. Turning to the headstone, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Chris kissed his temple, and arms around each other’s waists, they kept walking.

~

 _July 12_  
_Near the Canadian Border  
_ _Forty-three days after_

 

Everything hurt.

Phil couldn’t be more specific. Everything just hurt.

Chris was somber and quiet at his side, fiddling with the radio. Apparently whoever was acting President of the United States was making some kind of promises of retaliation against the perpetrators of the May 30 attack, not that either Chris or Phil had the energy to give any shits about that anymore. Phil glanced sadly at the last dregs of water left in his bottle and silently hoped they’d find a place to replenish their supply at some point today. Without taking a sip he badly wanted, he held the bottle out to Chris, who shook his head.

“I’m okay,” Chris mumbled.

 _My ass,_ Phil thought. “Please drink,” he insisted. “Doctor’s orders.”

Without even giving Phil a perfunctory dirty look, Chris took the bottle, tilted it back only far enough to wet his lips, and then handed back.

“I don’t know where we are,” Chris admitted, staring blankly at his compass.

“Are we still going north?” Phil asked.

Chris nodded. “But whether that means north deeper into Canada or north right into the water, I’m not sure.” The radio had diverted to other topics, so Chris shut it off.

Phil shot a weak glance around him, pushing his too-long hair out of his eyes. “Just follow the road,” he said, shrugging, because he didn’t know how to else to respond.

Chris just “hmm”ed in acknowledgement. His quiet was worrying Phil.

It was mid-afternoon when Chris fell out of step with Phil. For a few feet, Phil didn’t notice it; then, he turned back. Chris was hunched over, hands on his thighs, his breathing erratic.

“Chris?” Phil stumbled back to him. “Chris?”

Chris looked up at Phil. His face was pale, _so_ pale, his lips chapped, and his eyes full of sadness.

“Phil,” he whispered hoarsely. “I can’t go on.”

Phil let a beat fall, then immediately contradicted him. “Yes, you can. Come on.”

Chris reached out and grabbed Phil by the shirt, unclipping the compass from his own belt loop and clipping it on Phil’s. “I can’t, Phil. I _can’t.”_ His backpack fell from his shoulders, and then he fell to his knees on the asphalt, forward onto his elbows, and rolled to his side.

“Chris, get up,” Phil sighed, exasperated. _“Get up.”_

“You have to keep going,” Chris rasped. “Take my pack. Get to Vancouver. Go, Phil. You’ve gotta keep going.”

“I’ll keep going as soon as you _get the fuck up_ and come with me.”

“I love you,” Chris said softly. “I love you so much.”

 _“Get up, Christopher. GET UP.”_ Phil was yelling now.

Chris took Phil’s hand and kissed it. “Love, go. _Go.”_

Phil heard his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Without breaking eye contact with Chris, he furiously took off his backpack and tossed it to the ground, where it landed with a light _thwack_ ; then he lay right down next to Chris on the hard asphalt.

“What are you doing?” Chris asked, frowning.

“Well, if my husband’s going to lie down and die, then by god I’m doing it right next to him,” Phil snapped defiantly.

Chris’ eyes grew wide. “Don’t...don’t you dare…”

“I’ll get up if you do,” Phil dared.

Chris stayed silent, just looking at Phil through the most exhausted, pained eyes Phil had ever seen him wear.

 _“As long as we both shall live,”_ Phil quoted. “I waited more than fifteen years to hear you say those words to me, Chris; is _forty-three days_ really the best you can give me?”

Chris’ face crumpled. He took a shuddering breath, grabbing for Phil’s hands.

“We got this far because we are stronger than this,” Phil continued. “You told me that when this happened, and I still believe it. We are stronger than our country, we are stronger than the country that dropped these bombs on us, and we are stronger than the fucking bombs themselves. We deserve to die in each other’s arms in a goddamn _bed_ , safe and sound, fifty years from now. Not here. Not today. Not like this.” Phil sat up, not letting go of Chris’ hands. “Get up, Chris. _Now.”_

Chris looked at Phil, so weary, so very weary. “I love you.”

“Then prove it,” Phil demanded. _“Get up.”_

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Chris gave Phil’s hands a weak squeeze. It was slow - agonizingly slow - but he began to tug himself up, forcing himself to a sitting position. He took another couple of deep breaths, leaning into Phil, and rubbed his calf mindlessly, right where his wound was. Phil reached into his pack and pulled out the water bottle; uncapping it, he took Chris by the chin, tilted his head back, and steadily poured every drop of it into Chris’ mouth. Chris swallowed obediently.

Phil leaned in and kissed Chris’ sweaty brow. “Let’s go,” he said softly.

And they kept walking.

They skipped an evening meal for lack of food. Phil’s stomach gnawed horribly; Chris’ audibly growled. After a few miles, Chris had to lean on Phil for support as they walked. Then, as night began to fall, Chris fell out of step with Phil again. Phil looked over to his husband, fearing the worst; but Chris was looking up at a still-intact signpost.

_VANCOUVER: 30KM_

They looked up at the sign together. “That’s...that’s less than twenty miles.” Phil turned to Chris. “We’ll be there tomorrow.”

Chris took a long, slow breath and smiled for the first time in a long, long time, then turned and hugged Phil. The two men stood, embracing and swaying slightly, for several long moments.

~

 _July 13_  
_Vancouver, British Columbia  
_ _Forty-four days after_

 

_Step. Step. Step._

It was foggy that morning. Phil was holding Chris upright as they made their way down the road, trying hard not to think about what kind of particles might be trapped in the fog that surrounded them. His feet burned like there were hot nails driving into them. His head pounded. His back screamed. He wished, down to his very cells, for relief. He just needed this to be over. They both just needed this to be over.

Chris’ breathing didn’t sound right.

_Step. Step. Step._

Phil looked up ahead on their path and blinked, bringing them to a halt.

There was a man in the distance, so desperately fair that he might’ve been an angel.

But angels don’t wear military fatigues. _Do they?_

Chris didn’t even notice they’d stopped. He was slumped against Phil’s shoulder, barely, barely conscious. Phil had to secure his grip around Chris’ waist, grappling for a firmer hold on Chris’ hand that was slung over his shoulder.

The angel was moving closer, running. He was now identifiable as human, though that didn’t mean he wasn’t an angel, circumstances being what they were. Phil faintly heard a voice: _“Somebody get Hugh and a full med team!”_ The yell apparently came from the angel.

_Do angels yell?_

As the angel moved closer to them, his military fatigues came into relief. There was an American flag patch on his shoulder. Phil looked up as he approached; the angel had bright blue eyes, somewhere between Chris’ and Jim’s in shade, full of concern.

“Holy shit,” the angel breathed, in a very un-angel-like tone. Behind him, a darker-skinned man and a host of men and women in white were running at full speed toward Chris and Phil. _“Hugh, they’re refugees!”_ the angel shouted over his shoulder. As he turned, he revealed a flag post behind him; through the fog, Phil could see Canadian, American, and British flags flying.

This was Vancouver. This was camp.

Phil turned to Chris, leaning his head in, speaking into Chris’ ear. “We’re here, sweetheart. We made it.”

Chris smiled weakly, then instantly crumpled to the pavement, barely caught by Phil and the angel before he landed face-first on the asphalt. The dark-skinned man - _Hugh? -_ arrived at Phil’s side, placing gentle hands on him, urging him onto a gurney wheeled up next to them.

“Help my husband first,” Phil managed to insist in a threadbare voice, but he found himself still urged to lie down by the hands on his shoulders, and powerless to resist either their pressure or his own desire to do just that.

“How about we help both of you at the same time?” a gentle voice said. “I’m Dr. Culber. Can you tell me your name?”

Phil swallowed nothing and fruitlessly licked his lips. “Phil,” he confirmed. “Philip Boyce.”

“Hi, Phil,” Dr. Culber said gently. “What’s your husband’s name?”

Phil rolled his head over; directly to his right, doctors were lifting and placing Chris on his own gurney, assessing him in exactly the same manner Phil was being assessed. _“Chrissy,”_ Phil whispered, before raising his voice. “Christopher Pike.”

“Where’d you guys come from?”

Phil tried to remember. Where had they come from? A sweet place. Near the water.

“California,” he finally mumbled. “The Bay.”

Dr. Culber paused, blinking for a moment with what looked like surprise, then looked up to the angel. “You get that, Paul?”

“Got it,” the angel - _Paul_ \- confirmed before running back to the complex several yards away.

“He’s…” Phil said weakly, trying to find the information under the layers of cotton in his brain, “he’s...allergic...penicillin, macrolides, morphine.” Phil swallowed a mouthful of nothing, keeping his eyes on the gurney with Chris on it, his view obscured by the swarm of doctors and nurses and techs, and his mouth kept right on mumbling without him giving it full permission. “Right lower leg wound...infected...treated it, but...history of appendectomy...depression…”

Dr. Culber looked at him, deciphering his babble. “You a doctor, Phil?”

Phil managed to nod.

Dr. Culber smiled. “Okay.” He whipped around. “Geoff, you ready to wrap and run?”

“Ready,” said a disembodied voice behind Chris’ frame on the gurney. Phil looked over; Chris was somehow still conscious and looking directly at him.

From somewhere deep in him - he wasn’t sure where - Phil found the strength to reach up and grip Dr. Culber’s scrub top. “Don’t separate us,” he begged. “Please. _Please._ Don’t take him away from me.”

Dr. Culber’s eyes softened. “All right,” he said gently. “All right. We won’t split you up.”

Phil exhaled slowly in relief. “Thank you.”

The lights inside were bright, the smells familiarly antiseptic, and doctors, nurses, and techs were calling out vital signs and diagnoses and other words that Phil knows used to make sense to him, not long ago, not long ago at all...but now, all that mattered was…

“Phil? Phil? _Phil!”_

Phil turned. Chris’ gurney was directly to his left, but their view of each other was obstructed by a collection of medical personnel at Chris’ bedside.

“I’m here, Chrissy,” Phil called in a voice that came out weaker than he’d intended. “I’m right here.”

A tech moved; their eyes met. Chris’ were sunken and hollow. He frowned slightly; he looked confused.

“You’re on the wrong side of the bed,” he said, disoriented.

Phil blinked, knowing he’d probably cry, if he weren’t so damn dehydrated. “It’s okay, baby,” he said. “I’m here anyway, and I won’t leave you.”

Chris blinked at Phil. “Are we gonna die?”

“No,” said Phil, entirely certain what he was saying was true. “We’re stronger than that.”

~

_One floor up_

“Did I hear something about two more refugees, Lieutenant Stamets? This late out?”

Paul turned from the computer. “Yes, sir,” he answered. “Arrived late this morning. A married couple in their forties. Tax records give their last known address as in Sausalito. That’s farther south than any other refugees that have made it up here.”

“Sausalito?” Paul’s superior said, his tone uncharacteristically dismissive and icy. “There’s no way they came that far. My dads were in Sausalito. It was obliterated.”

Paul sobered respectfully, but gestured to the computer. “Yes sir, but that’s what public records show. Perhaps they moved and didn’t update their address; there’s no way to know until we can speak to them.” He paused, clicking between the two documents on the screen. “Must’ve been a recent wedding, too; they both filed taxes as single last year.”

His superior looked over his shoulder at the screen, then went deathly still.

“Sir?” Paul said, turning. The man next to him had his jaw hanging limply open and his eyes full of tears, and Paul had never, _ever_ seen that look on his leader’s face before.

“Lieutenant Kirk?”

But Lieutenant Kirk was already out the door and racing down the hall toward the stairwell.

Paul frowned after him for a moment, then turned back to the screen, showing the most recent 1040 tax forms for Philip J. Boyce and Christopher V. Pike.

~

_One floor down_

When looking back on it later, Jim would vaguely recall having heard some people calling to him as he raced down the stairs and through the halls on his way to the medical triage unit. In the moment, though, he didn’t hear them. He didn’t stop or even pause for breath until he saw Bones in the nurses’ station, holding a vial of medication and talking lowly to one of his fellow physicians.

 _“Bones!”_ Jim yelled down the hall, running at a full clip. Bones looked up, frowning, handing the vial to the other doctor. _“Bones, they’re here!”_

“Slow down, Jim, slow down; what’re you talkin’ about?” Bones asked, voice deliberately steady, obviously trying to impart some calm.

“Chris and Phil,” Jim breathed, grabbing Bones’ hands and rushing down the hall, peering in every room he had access to. “They’re here, they made it here, they’re _alive.”_

Bones was shaking his head, tugging on Jim’s hands to still him. “Darlin’, that doesn’t make any sense. Where’d you hear that?”

“Upstairs, in registration!” Jim insisted, frustrated. “Stamets said it was them! He had their tax records up! They got here this morning! It’s _them_ , Bones! It’s - ”

Jim stopped dead in the hall and fell silent, hands over his mouth, looking into a triage room through an observation window. Bones peered over Jim’s shoulder at two of his colleagues, Hugh Culber and Geoff M’Benga, working feverishly over two beds, in which lay...

“I’ll be damned,” Bones breathed, placing a gentle hand on Jim’s back.

Jim pressed a hand to the glass, face completely crumpling at the sight. “Dad,” he breathed tightly, before raising his voice. _“Dad!”_

Inside the room, Phil rolled his head to the side, looking out the window between one nurse who was hanging fluids for him and another who was drawing his blood, and made eye contact with Jim, pressed against the window, weeping.

Phil’s mouth opened. He blinked a few times, trying to reconcile what he was seeing with the events of the past six weeks. _“Jim,”_ he finally whispered, watching as Jim choked at the sight of Phil, mouthing _Dad_ over and over.

 _“Jim,”_ he repeated on a breath

Through the glass, Jim visibly choked out a tiny sob.

Tearing his eyes away, Phil turned back to his husband, weak and pale in the neighboring bed.

“Sweetheart, look,” Phil implored. _“Look.”_

Chris’ eyes fluttered open to meet Phil’s.

“Jim’s here, Chrissy,” he said. “Jim’s here, and he’s okay.”

Chris looked so confused, so hazy, but he managed to focus his eyes out the observation window, where the blurry, indistinct form of his son stood, sobbing but healthy, whole, _alive._ He stared for a moment, unable to believe his eyes, wondering if he had, indeed, died, and Jim was here to usher him off to parts unknown...but then, Jim wouldn’t be weeping like that if that were true, would he?

“My boy?” Chris breathed. “My boy’s okay?”

 _“Dad,”_ Jim mouthed tearfully, hand pressed firmly to the glass.

Through the tangle of people in the room, Chris extended his arm out, as if he could touch the window separating him from Jim. His strength wasn’t adequate to keep his arm in that position for more than a second, but it was enough for Jim to see it and know he was recognized.

It was enough for Dr. Culber to see, too. He turned to Phil. “You’re...you’re Lieutenant Kirk’s fathers,” he breathed, clarity dawning on him.

Phil looked back to the window, smiling broadly. “Yeah, we are.”

“You were in Sausalito,” Dr. Culber said.

Phil nodded. “Yeah, we were.”

Dr. Culber’s face took on a soft, delighted expression of sudden clarity. _“Dios mio,_ you’re a miracle,” he said softly.

Chris’ eyes stayed trained on the observation window, on his son weeping and pressing his hand tighter to the glass. “Jim’s okay,” he mumbled weakly to himself. “Jim’s okay. Jim’s okay. Jim... _Jim.”_

~

 _July 17_  
_Vancouver, British Columbia  
_ _Forty-eight days after_

 

“Hey.”

Phil turned his head; Chris was looking over to him, a sleepy smile on his face. He patted the side of his hospital bed. “C’mere, handsome.”

Phil smiled. He stood slowly, leaning heavily on the side rails of his bed, and moved over to Chris’ bed, dragging his IV pole with him.

They were in shitty shape, but by Dr. Culber’s assessment, it was nothing short of miraculous that they weren’t in shittier shape. They were both anemic enough to merit blood transfusions, profoundly dehydrated and malnourished - they’d lost about fifteen percent of their body weight apiece - and suffering from low-level radiation sickness. They were both dotted with all manner of cuts, bruises, and goose eggs. Phil had another urinary infection that he hadn’t even noticed and slightly worse radiation sickness than Chris had. But generally speaking, Chris was worse off; he had another infection from his leg wound - he’d already been to the OR once to thoroughly debride the wound - plus stress fractures in both his feet, two broken ribs, and damage to his kidneys. Against every single possible odd, though, their conditions were improving, albeit slowly.

Phil crawled in next to Chris in the little bed, settling in under the blankets. “Hi,” he whispered.

“Hi.” Chris’ smile grew. “You’re still on the wrong side of the bed.”

“Does it bother you that much? _Really?”_

Chris shook his head. “I don’t think very much is gonna bother me for a long time.”

Phil stroked a long curlicue off Chris’ forehead. His hair was silky again, having just been washed for the first time in nearly seven weeks. “I’m gonna miss this, when you cut it again.”

Chris shrugged with only his head. “Maybe I won’t for a while.”

“Really?”

“Mmhmm.” Chris leaned in and nuzzled Phil’s neck, inhaling deeply. “I’d forgotten what you smell like when you’re clean.”

Phil snorted. “Little easier to live with?”

Chris laughed, then winced as his ribs protested.

“You need more pain meds?” Phil asked, but Chris shook his head before the question was even finished. He opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a knock on the doorframe of their room.

Phil didn’t even need to look up to see who it was. Chris beamed.

“I’m not interrupting any canoodling, am I?” Jim asked suspiciously.

“Do we look like we’re in _canoodling_ condition right now, James?” Chris asked, gesturing vaguely downward at his and Phil’s bodies. “And who the hell taught you that word, anyway?”

“Your husband,” Jim answered seamlessly. “Which brings me to why I’m here.”

Phil looked to Jim. “Uh-oh.”

“Relax,” Jim assured him. “We took care of the shovel talk when I was twelve. No, I’m here because I have something for you.”

Phil and Chris looked at Jim expectantly, watching with rapt fascination as he suddenly became _shy_ in front of them - a very rare event.

“When, um...when _it_ happened,” Jim began euphemistically, “there was a private plane with six people on it in the air, on their way to Alberta.” He paused and swallowed. “They diverted here. The plane didn’t take the brunt of the heat or blast from the explosions, but it took enough of a hit that it was limping by the time it got to the airstrip, and honestly we’re still not sure how it survived this far. But by some miracle, even though the plane was toast, all six people walked off of it without a scratch. They were shaken, obviously, but they were alive. They’d made it.” Jim slipped a hand into his pocket, fiddling with something unseen to Phil and Chris. “The plane’s being dismantled for scrap - it’s not good for much else at this point anyway - but, well, I got my hands on some of it, and...here.”

He placed something metallic in Chris’ hand and closed it. Chris opened his hand to reveal two titanium strips welded into rings.

Phil’s mouth fell open. He looked up to Jim.

Chris looked closer at the rings. Both had identical inscriptions on the inside of the band. He read them, looked to Jim, and grinned.

 _“Per aspera?”_ he said.

Jim smiled at the floor and blushed. “It seemed appropriate.”

“Thank you, son,” Chris said softly. Turning his gaze to Phil, Chris grabbed his left hand, careful not to disturb his IV site, and slipped the ring onto his finger. “I do,” he murmured.

Phil felt something sweet and warm bloom in his chest. He took the other ring, slipped it onto Chris’ finger, and said, “I do.”

Chris gave a toothy grin, leaning in closer. “You’re my favorite.”

Phil kissed him, and for a moment, he didn’t feel the pain in his back and feet, he didn’t feel his fatigue, or the queasiness or the lightheadedness; he felt life and richness and love and safety and _home_. They lost themselves in the kiss so much that, for just a moment, they forgot their son was standing in the room too...until said son cleared his throat gently.

Chris and Phil reluctantly parted. Chris opened his mouth to apologize, but was stopped by the look on Jim’s face; it was very cat-who-ate-the-canary, and it made Chris narrow his eyes. “What?” Chris asked flatly.

“Did I mention,” Jim said nonchalantly, “that a couple of months ago, I did one of those online certification things to officiate weddings?” Jim paused significantly. “Couple of Bones’ friends wanted to get married and they needed an officiant to pinch-hit, so...I did.”

“What...what does that mean?” Phil asked quietly.

Jim’s grin grew wide. “It means I just witnessed your vows,” he answered smugly. “And _that_ means you’re now legally married.”

“What?” Chris breathed.

“But…” Phil stammered. “But...we don’t even have a marriage license; how can we…”

Jim slipped a hand into his other pocket, unfolding a document with a raised seal. “Signed by the Prime Minister of Canada.”

Chris grabbed the paper from Jim, looking at it with huge eyes.

“Is it real?” Phil asked.

Slowly, eyes welling up, Chris nodded. “It’s real,” he whispered.

Jim smiled at the two of them. “He called with well wishes while Dad was in surgery,” he clarified. “He asked what he could do for the last two survivors. I told him we could start there.”

Phil took the license from Chris’ hands. It had been predated to May 30 - the day of the attack, the day they’d exchanged vows in their basement while nukes rained down around them. The day they were really married, in their minds.

Chris sniffled loudly. “Get over here, son.”

Jim went, and Chris wrapped his arms around Jim, as tightly as he could; Jim hugged Chris back as gently as possible, wrapping one arm around Phil too and pulling him carefully into the embrace.

“I never thought I’d hug you guys again,” Jim said tightly, chest quivering against Phil’s cheek.

It took several minutes for the three of them to stop blubbering against one another. Finally, Chris couldn’t contain a yawn, and they all laughed and let go, with much covert wiping of eyes.

“All right, well,” Jim said, clearing his throat, “I’m gonna get back to my own fiance before he sends out a search party.” He squeezed their hands, looking at the rings. “They suit you.”

Phil squeezed Jim’s hand. “Thank you, Jim. _Thank you.”_

Chris took a long, fond look at Jim, and it was quiet in the room for a moment. “I love you, son,” he finally broke the silence. _“We_ love you.”

Jim welled up again, but didn’t let the tears fall. “I love you.” He squeezed their hands again. “I’ll come by tomorrow, okay?”

And then he was gone. Phil turned back to Chris, wrapping an arm across his shoulders. They looked out the window; it was nighttime, and though the clouds were thick, there were little pinpricks of starlight filtering through, like tiny speckles of hope in the sky.

“What do we do now?” Phil asked softly.

Chris looked up at the stars, pressed his body a little closer to his husband. “Well, we...go find you a spinach salad and me a pot roast,” he answered softly. “We find a house with an in-ground pool and room for a vegetable garden. And we grow old together.”

Phil smiled softly, following Chris’ gaze to the stars. “We start over,” he said.

Chris breathed deeply, let it out slowly, and closed his eyes. “We start over.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I am deeply proud of how this story turned out and I hope you've enjoyed it. Please don't hesitate to leave me a comment!


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